■  .   . 


FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


1 1  fitter* 


■ 

I 

I 


^  OF  PR/% 


P  O  E  M($m 


V    6  1933 


4£oeicti  se»\*? 


BY 


LUCY      LARCOM 


BOSTON: 
FIELDS,    OSGOOD,    &    CO., 

SUCCESSORS   TO   TICKNOR   AND   FIELDS. 
1869. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

FIELDS,     OSGOOD,     &     CO., 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press  :  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 
Cambridge. 


2To  t&e  i8emotg 

OF 

ELIZABETH    H.    WHITTIER, 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 
BY  ONE 

WHO    OWES     ITS    BEST    SUGGESTIONS    TO    THE 
INSPIRATION   OF  HER  FRIENDSHIP. 


T 


HIS  is  a  haunted  world.     It  hath  no  breeze 
But  is  the  echo  of  some  voice  beloved  : 
Its  pines  have  human  tones ;  its  billows  wear 
The  color  and  the  sparkle  of  dear  eyes. 
Its  flowers  are  sweet  with  touch  of  tender  hands 
That  once  clasped  ours.     All  things  are  beautiful 
Because  of  something  lovelier  than  themselves, 
Which  breathes  within  them,  and  will  never  die.  — 
Haunted, — but  not  with  any  spectral  gloom  ; 
Earth  is  suffused,  inhabited  by  heaven. 

These  blossoms,  gathered  in  familiar  paths, 
With  dear  companions  now  passed  out  of  sight, 
Shall  not  be  laid  upon  their  graves.     They  live, 
Since  love  is  deathless.     Pleasure  now  nor  pride 
Is  theirs  in  mortal  wise,  but  hallowing  thoughts 
Will  meet  the  offering,  of  so  little  worth, 
Wanting  the  benison  death  has  made  divine. 


And  visible  friends  link  hands  with  those  unseen, 
Veiled  in  immortal  light ;  their  love  is  one. 
And,  for  love's  sake,  they  will  accept  these  waifs, 
Laid  at  their  feet  with  a  heart's  gratitude, 
And  sadness  that  it  has  no  worthier  gift. 


CONTENTS. 


SEASIDE    AND     HILLSIDE. 

Page 

Hilary 3 

On  the  Beach 6 

A  Sea  Glimpse 9 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes 11 

Skipper  Ben 14 

The  Light-Houses 17 

Bittersweet  Shadows 19 

Diver  and  Voyager 22 

The  Legend  of  Skadi 24 

The  Old  School-House 28 

Elsie  in  Illinois 31 

My  Mountain 37 

Sonnets. 

The  Distant  Mountain-Range 41 

The  Presence 42 

The  Farewell 43 

At  Winnipesaukee 44 


CHILD     AND     WOMAN. 

Little  Nannie 49 

Swinging  in  the  Barn 51 

Watching  the  Snow 53 


vm  CONTENTS. 

Prudence 57 

Blue-eyed  Grace 60 

Rock  and  Rill 64 

In  the  Rain 66 

The  Schoolmistress 68 

Getting  Along 72 

Unwedded 75 

Chriemhild 80 

Legend  of  a  Veil 85 

FROM    WITHOUT. 

Entangled 99 

The  Riddle  of  Beauty 101 

Hints 104 

The  Death  of  June no 

The  Indian  Summer 115 

Would  You? 118 

Better 120 

The  Rose  Enthroned 122 


WAR-MEMORIES. 

The  Nineteenth  of  April 129 

The  Sinking  of  the  Merrimack 132 

Weaving 134 

Waiting  for  News 138 

A  Loyal  Woman's  No 144 

Re-enlisted 148 

Canticle  de  Profundis 153 

Tolling 157 

The  Flag 159 


CONTENTS.  ix 
MISCELLANEOUS 

Hand  in  Hand  with  Angels 163 

Eureka 167 

Psyche  at  School 170 

Godsends 173 

Thirty-five 176 

Sleep-Song 182 

So  Little 184 

Three  Old  Saws 186 

A  Word  with  my  Soul 188 

The  Weeping  Prophet 192 

Nature  and  the  Book 195 

Sabbath  Days 199 

A  White  Sunday 202 

Sonnets. 

Drought 208 

Springs  in  the  Desert 209 

The  Secret 210 

"Himself  he  cannot  save" 212 

"As  Strangers  and  Pilgrims" 215 

Monica  and  Augustine 217 


DEVOTIONAL. 

A  Thanksgiving 227 

Our  Prayers 231 

At  the  Beautiful  Gate 233 

My  Angel-Dress 236 

"  Follow  thou  me" 238 

Thy  will  be  done 240 

The  Still  Hour '  .  242 


x  CONTENTS. 

THE    COMING    LIFE. 

Heaven's  Need 247 

The  Chamber  called  Peace 250 

A  Year  in  Heaven 254 

By  the  Fireside 258 

Near  Shore 261 

Across  the  River 265 

More  Life 268 


NOTES -.271 


SEASIDE    AND    HILLSIDE 


HILARY. 

T  T  ILARY, 

A         Summer  calls  thee,  o'er  the  sea ! 
Like  white  flowers  upon  the  tide, 
In  and  out  the  vessels  glide ; 
But  no  wind  on  all  the  main 
Sends  thy  blithe  soul  home  again : 
Every  salt  breeze  moans  for  thee, 
Hilary ! 

Hilary, 
Welcome  Summer's  step  will  be, 
Save  to  those  beside  whose  door 
Doleful  birds  sit  evermore 
Singing,  "  Never  comes  he  here, 
Who  made  every  season's  cheer." 
Dull  the  June  that  brings  not  thee, 
Hilary ! 


HILARY. 

Hilary, 
What  strange  world  has  sheltered  thee? 
Here  the  soil  beneath  thy  feet 
Rang  with  songs,  and  blossomed  sweet 
Still  the  blue  skies  ask  of  Earth, 
Blind  and  dumb  without  thy  mirth, 
Where  she  hides  thy  heart  of  glee, 
Hilary ! 

Hilary, 
All  things  shape  a  sigh  for  thee ! 
O'er  the  waves,  among  the  flowers, 
Through  the  lapse  of  odorous  hours, 
Breathes  a  lonely,  longing  sound, 
As  of  something  sought,  unfound : 
Lorn  are  all  things,  lorn  are  we, 
Hilary ! 

Hilary ! 
Oh,  to  sail  in  quest  of  thee, 

On  the  trade-wind's  steady  tune, 
On  the  hurrying  monsoon, 
Far  through  torrid  seas,  that  lave 
Dry,  hot  sands,  —  a  breathless  grave. 
Sad  as  vain  the  search  would  be, 
Hilary ! 


HILARY. 

Hilary, 
Chase  the  sorrow  from  the  sea  ! 
Summer-heart,  bring  summer  near, 
Warm,  and  fresh,  and  airy-clear ! 
Dead  thou  art  not !  dead  is  pain ; 
Now  Earth  sees  and  sings  again ; 
Death,  to  hold  thee,  Life  must  be, 
Hilary ! 


ON   THE   BEACH. 


ON   THE   BEACH. 

XT  7"E  stroll  as  children,  thou  and  I, 

Upon  the  sandy  beach, 
With  younger  children  playing  nigh  ; 
The  surf-boats  dance,  the  ships  go  by, 
Beyond  the  cape's  vague  reach. 


It  is  a  comfort  once  to  be 

Like  those  young  hearts  again  ; 
To  feel,  O  friend  beloved,  with  thee, 
The  broad  refreshment  of  the  sea, 
In  weary  soul  and  brain. 


The  white  feet  pattering  on  the  sand, 

The  wings  that  dip  and  rise, 
The  mower's  whistle  from  the  land, 
And  girlhood's  laugh,  and  murmuring  strand, 

All  blend  and  harmonize. 


ON    THE    BEACH. 

And  glimmering  beach,  and  plover's  flight, 

And  that  long  surge  that  rolls 
Through  bands  of  green  and  purple  light, 
Are  fairer  to  our  human  sight, 

Because  of  human  souls. 

Seest  thou  yon  fleet  of  anchored  isles 

Upon  the  sea-line  gray  ? 
My  thoughts  o'erfloat  these  murmurous  miles, 
To  land  where  bygone  summer  smiles 

On  gorge  and  sheltering  bay. 

I  wander  with  a  spirit  there, 

Along  the  enchanted  shore : 
We  breathe  the  soft,  sea-scented  air, 
And  think  no  isle  is  half  so  fair 

As  rocky  Appledore. 

She  turns  to  me  her  large,  dark  eyes :  — 

Were  ever  eyes  so  true  ?  — 
The  twilight  flushes,  fades,  and  dies  ; 
The  beacon  flames  ;  the  white  stars  rise 

Across  pale  gulfs  of  blue. 


ON    THE    BEACH. 

Those  eyes  on  earth  no  longer  shine ; 

And  yet  it  seems  to  me 
I  see  their  light,  O  friend,  in  thine  ; 
They  add  a  tenderness  divine 

Unto  this  tremulous  sea. 

Seen  and  unseen  are  interblent ; 

The  waves  that  hither  roll 
In  whiter  curves  of  foam  are  spent, 
And  deeper  seems  the  green  content 

Of  shore,  for  her  sweet  soul. 

Can  love  be  hid  in  funeral  urn, 

Or  shut  within  the  grave  ? 
Life  passes,  only  to  return, 
In  tints  that  glow,  and  stars  that  burn 

Upon  the  refluent  wave. 

The  land  is  dearer  for  the  sea, 

The  ocean  for  the  shore  : 
These  sands  of  time  too  drear  would  be, 
If  heaven's  unguessed  eternity 

Rolled  not  our  feet  before. 


A   SEA   GLIMPSE. 


A   SEA   GLIMPSE. 

TT  IGH  tide,  and  the  year  at  ebb 
**         The  sea  is  a  dream  to-day  : 
The  sky  is  a  gossamer  web 

Of  sapphire,  and  pearl,  and  gray  : 

A  veil  over  rock  and  boat ; 

A  breath  on  the  tremulous  blue, 
Where  the  dim  sails  lie  afloat, 

Or,  unaware,  slip  from  view. 

They  veer  to  the  rosy  ray ; 

They  dusk  to  the  violet  shade  ; 
Like  a  thought  they  flit  away ; 

Like  a  foolish  hope,  they  fade. 

But  listen  !  a  sudden  plash  ! 

A  ship  is  heaving  in  sight, 
With  a  stir,  and  a  noisy  dash 

Of  the  salt  foam,  seething  white. 


IO  A    SEA    GLIMPSE. 

Tar-grimed  and  weather-stained, 
The  sailors  shout  from  her  deck : 

Naught  of  the  sky  blue-veined, 
Or  the  dreamy  waves  they  reck. 

And  the  sunburnt  girl,  who  stands 

Where  her  feet  on  the  wet  wrack  slip, 

Eyes  shaded  with  lithe,  brown  hands, — 
She  sees  but  the  coming  ship. 


HANNAH    BINDING   SHOES.  II 


HANNAH   BINDING  SHOES. 

"DOOR  lone  Hannah, 

Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 
Faded,  wrinkled, 
Sitting,  stitching,  in  a  mournful  muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree : 
Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


Not  a  neighbor, 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse, 

To  her  whisper, 
"  Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news  ? " 
O,  her  heart's  adrift,  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone ! 
Night  and  morning, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


12  HANNAH   BINDING   SHOES. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  woos: 

Hale  and  clever, 
For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 
May-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 
And  the  waves  are  laughing  so  ! 
For  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 


May  is  passing  : 
Mid  the  apple  boughs  a  pigeon  coos. 

Hannah  shudders, 
For  the  mild  southwester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped : 
Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


'T  is  November, 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 


HANNAH    BINDING   SHOES.  1 3 

Whispering  hoarsely,  "Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Ben  ? " 
Old  with  watching, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she  views. 

Twenty  seasons  :  — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea: 
Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


14 


SKIPPER  BEN. 


SKIPPER  BEN. 

SAILING  away! 
Losing  the  breath  of  the  shores  in  May, 
Dropping  down  from  the  beautiful  bay, 
Over  the  sea-slope  vast  and  gray ! 
And  the  skipper's  eyes  with  a  mist  are  blind  ; 
For  a  vision  comes  on  the  rising  wind, 
Of  a  gentle  face,  that  he  leaves  behind, 
And  a  heart  that  throbs  through  the  fog-bank  dim, 
Thinking  of  him. 

Far  into  night 
He  watches  the  gleam  of  the  lessening  light 
Fixed  on  the  dangerous  island  height, 
That  bars  the  harbor  he  loves  from  sight. 
And  he  wishes,  at  dawn,  he  could  tell  the  tale 
Of  how  they  had  weathered  the  southwest  gale, 
To  brighten  the  cheek  that  had  grown  so  pale 
With  a  wakeful  night  among  spectres  grim, — 
Terrors  for  him. 


SKIPPER    BEN.  15 

Yo-heave-yo  ! 
Here  's  the  Bank  where  the  fishermen  go. 
Over  the  schooner's  sides  they  throw 
Tackle  and  bait  to  the  deeps  below. 
And  Skipper  Ben  in  the  water  sees, 
When  its  ripples  curl  to  the  light  land  breeze, 
Something  that  stirs  like  his  apple  trees ; 
And  two  soft  eyes  that  beneath  them  swim, 

Lifted  to  him. 

Hear  the  wind  roar, 
And  the  rain  through  the  slit  sails  tear  and  pour! 
"  Steady !  we  '11  scud  by  the  Cape  Ann  shore, 
Then  hark  to  the  Beverly  bells  once  more  ! " 
And  each  man  worked  with  the  will  of  ten  ; 
While  up  in  the  rigging,  now  and  then, 
The  lightning  glared  in  the  face  of  Ben, 
Turned  to  the  black  horizon's  rim, 

Scowling  on  him. 

Into  his  brain 
Burned  with  the  iron  of  hopeless  pain, 
Into  thoughts  that  grapple,  and  eyes  that  strain, 
Pierces  the  memory,  cruel  and  vain  ! 


j5  skipper  ben. 

Never  again  shall  he  walk  at  ease, 
Under  his  blossoming  apple  trees, 
That  whisper  and  sway  to  the  sunset  breeze, 
While  the  soft  eyes  float  where  the  sea-gulls  skim, 
Gazing  with  him. 

How  they  went  down 
Never  was  known  in  the  still  old  town. 
Nobody  guessed  how  the  fisherman  brown, 
With  the  look  of  despair  that  was  half  a  frown, 
Faced  his  fate  in  the  furious  night,— 
Faced  the  mad  billows  with  hunger  white, 
Just  within  hail  of  the  beacon-light 
That  shone  on  a  woman  sweet  and  trim, ' 

Waiting  for  him. 

Beverly  bells, 
Ring  to  the  tide  as  it  ebbs  and  swells! 
His  was  the  anguish  a  moment  tells,  — 
The  passionate  sorrow  death  quickly  knells. 
But  the  wearing  wash  of  a  lifelong  woe 
Is  left  for  the  desolate  heart  to  know, 
Whose  tides  with  the  dull  years  come  and  go, 
Till  hope  drifts  dead  to  its  stagnant  brim, 
Thinking:  of  him. 


THE   LIGHT-HOUSES.  I J 


THE   LIGHT-HOUSES. 

'  I  'WO  pale  sisters,  all  alone, 

On  an  island  bleak  and  bare, 
Listening  to  the  breakers'  moan, 

Shivering  in  the  chilly  air  ; 
Looking  inland  towards  a  hill, 
On  whose  top  one  aged  tree 
Wrestles  with  the  storm-wind's  will, 
Rushing,  wrathful,  from  the  sea. 

Two  dim  ghosts  at  dusk  they  seem, 

Side  by  side,  so  white  and  tall, 
Sending  one  long,  hopeless  gleam 

Down  the  horizon's  darkened  wall. 
Spectres,  strayed  from  plank  or  spar, 

With  a  tale  none  lives  to  tell, 
Gazing  at  the  town  afar, 

Where  unconscious  widows  dwell. 

Two  white  angels  of  the  sea, 

Guiding  wave-worn  wanderers  home  ; 


1 8  THE    LIGHT-HOUSES. 

Sentinels  of  hope  they  be, 

Drenched  with  sleet,  and  dashed  with  foam, 
Standing  there  in  loneliness, 

Fireside  joys  for  men  to  keep ; 
Through  the  midnight  slumberless 

That  the  quiet  shore  may  sleep. 

Two  bright  eyes  awake  all  night 

To  the  fierce  moods  of  the  sea ; 
Eyes  that  only  close  when  light 

Dawns  on  lonely  hill  and  tree. 
O  kind  watchers !  teach  us,  too, 

Steadfast  courage,  sufferance  long! 
Where  an  eye  is  turned  to  you, 

Should  a  human  heart  grow  strong. 


BITTERSWEET   SHADOWS.  1 9 


BITTERSWEET   SHADOWS. 

/^VFF  we  drifted,  yesterday, 

^->^   Till  the  sea-foam  dashed  the  spray 

Of  the  woodland  bittersweet, 
Leaning  from  a  sunlit  cove 
Where  amid  salt  winds  it  throve, 

Swaying  to  the  tide's  low  beat. 

O,  the  afternoon  was  fair ! 
Murmurous  echoes  swept  the  air, — 

Sigh  of  pine,  and  dip  of  oar : 
Every  breeze  that  passed  us,  went 
Laden  with  some  rare  wood-scent, 

Loitering  down  the  dreamy  shore. 

And  we  lingered,  loitering  too, 
Where  the  heavy  cedars  threw 

Shadows  on  the  water's  gold  ; 
Till  again  in  glee  afloat, 
Like  a  bird  our  idle  boat 

Skimmed  the  wavelets  manifold. 


20  BITTERSWEET   SHADOWS. 

Then,  the  crystal  channel  won, 
In  its  deep  the  shallop  shone, 

Sails  of  silver,  prow  of  pearl : 
Hidden  ledges  brake  that  dream, 
Sucking  down  the  flash  and  gleam 

Underneath  their  high-tide  swirl. 

Free  again,  broad  sunshine  found, 
Slid  the  boat  on,  greenly  wound 

With  its  veil  of  bittersweet, 
Tangling  round  the  sunk  rock's  edge, 
Catching  streamers  of  sea-sedge 

From  the  sheen  beneath  our  feet. 

Anchored  in  the  dusk,  a  spell 
From  the  folds  of  twilight  fell 

On  the  bay's  black,  star-strewn  floor. 
Awe  with  that  weird  glitter  crept 
Shuddering  through  our  thoughts ;  we  stept 

Gladly  on  firm  land  once  more, 

Trailing  home  the  bittersweet. 
Such  dim  ending  was  but  meet 
For  an  afternoon  so  rare. 


BITTERSWEET   SHADOWS. 

Was  the  date  of  yesterday  ? 
Years  since  then  have  slipt  away  ; 
Few  such  memories  they  bare. 

No  to-days  like  that  remain  : 
•  Joy  is  flavored  now  with  pain  ; 

For  the  best  of  all  our  crew,  — 
Helmsman,  gentlest  passenger,  — 
Lie  so  still  they  will  not  stir, 

Though  the  sea  should  drench  them  through. 

So  our  shallop  floats  no  more 
Where  the  low,  vine-tangled  shore 

Dips  its  orange-golden  fruit 
To  the  plashing  of  the  wave  : 
Only  white  flowers  for  a  grave, 
Now  our  serious  hands  will  suit. 

Still  the  sun  shines,  and  we  drift 
Homeward  on  the  current  swift, 

Those  who  went  before  to  meet. 
All  things  beautiful  grow  sad  : 
Yet  even  grief  is  sometimes  glad;  — 

Shade  us,  Life,  with  bittersweet ! 


21 


DIVER   AND   VOYAGER. 
22 


DIVER  AND  VOYAGER. 

«T  TOYAGER,  hast  thou  ever  been  down 
V     where  thy  boat  glides  now, 

4.    „f  tfcp  iasreed  rocks  that  frown 
To  the  roots  ot  the  jaggcu 

O'er  a  death-white  brow? 

-To  the  wasted  gems  that  slip  away 

From  the  mocking  wave, 
Where  the  shark  and  swordfish  grimly  play 
Round  the  sailor's  grave?" 

-No,  diver,  no!  but  thy  pearls  I  wear, 

As  ray  boat  sways  here. 
Thou  hast  told  of  the  rock  in  ambush,  there 

Never  need  I  steer. 
-And  because  I  know  that  the  traitor  wave 

Must  restore  the  dead, 
While  I  sail  to  port  o'er  the  shipwrecked  brave, 
I  can  feel  no  dread." 


DIVER   AND    VOYAGER.  2$ 

"Light  voyager,  't  is  of  humanity 

That  I  tell  my  tale." 
"  Pale  diver,  that  Is  the  same  bright  sea 

Over  which  I  sail." 


THE  LEGEND   OF   SKADI. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  SKADI. 

-T-HROUGH  the  leaves  of  the  Edda  there  rustles 

J-      a  tale 
Of  Skadi,  the  daughter  of  torrent  and  gale, 
Who,  leaving  her  snow-summits,  breezy  and  free, 
Went  down  to  be  wedded  to  Njord  of  the  sea. 

Though  bright  was  the  ocean  as  now,  in  the  day 

When  Vanir  and  iEsir  held  nature  in  sway, 

Of  gods  though  her  bridegroom  was  reckoned  the 

third, 
In  Skadi's  new  mansion  a  murmur  was  heard. 

-O  Njord,  I  am  homesick!  the  gulfs  tiresome  note, 
The  moan  of  the  breakers,  the  tide's  endless  rote, 
They  hold  my  eyes  sleepless;  I  never  can  stay 
By  the  wide-staring  ocean.     Come,  let  us  away! 

-Away  to  my  mountains,  my  home  in  the  height^ 
To  the  glens  and  the  gorges,  the  summits  of  light . 


THE   LEGEND    OF    SKADI.  2$ 

And  Njord  could  but  listen,  and  go  with  his  bride ; 
But  there  for  his  sea-haunts  he  drearily  sighed. 

"O  Skadi,  come  back  to  the  warm,  sunny  surf! 
The  beach-sand  is  smoother  than  frost-bitten  turf; 
I  like  not,  at  midnight,  the  wolfs  hungry  howl, 
The  bear's  stealthy  footstep,  the  shriek  of  the  owl. 

"  Nine  sunsets,  my  Skadi,  from  sole  love  of  thee, 
I  will  give  to  the  mountains,  if  only  for  three 
With  me  thou  wilt  linger  the  blue  wave  beside ; 
The    billows    shall    lull     thee,    my    wild    one,    my 
bride ! " 

Then  down  the  steep  gorges  went  Skadi  and  Njord  ; 
Like  wind  through  the  pine-woods  they  swept  to  the 

fiord, 
And  back  in  three  mornings  they  hurried  again, 
Bearing  up  to  the  hill-tops  the  sigh  of  the  main. 

So  hither  and  thither  awhile  swayed  the  pair : 
But  Njord  sickened  soon  of  the  fresh  inland  air, 
And  once,  as  he  scented  afar  the  salt  sea, 
"  No  more  of  the  mountains,"  he  shouted,  "  for  me- ! " 

2 


26  THE   LEGEND    OF   SKADI. 

"I  am  nine  times  too  weary  of  cavern  and  cliff; 
All  the  pine-groves  of  Norway  I  'd  give  for  my  skiff. 
The  twilight,  that  buries  the  white,  solemn  hills, 
My  blood  like  the  coming  of  Ragnarok  chills." 

"  Three  days  and  three  nights  are  too  many  for  me 
To  waste  on  the  ocean,  O  dull  Njord,  and  thee!"' — 
And  Skadi  has  buckled  her  snow-sandals  on, 
And  back  to  her  mountains  alone  she  has  gone. 

The  red,  climbing  sunrise,  the  rosy-fringed  mist, 
Stealing  up   from   the  valley,  her  clear  cheek  have 

kissed  ; 
And  over  the  hill-tops  the  frosty  blue  sky 
With  the  joy  of  its  welcome  rekindles  her  eye. 

She   tightens   her  bowstring,  she   bounds   from   the 

rock  ; 
The  elves  in  their  caverns  her  merry  voice  mock ; 
The  waterfall's  rush  to  the  tarn  by  the  crag, 
And  the  leap  of  the  reindeer,  behind  her  both  lag. 

But  still,  as  she  chases  the  wolf  and  the  boar, 
By  sounds  she  is  startled,  like  surf  on  the  shore, 


THE    LEGEND    OF    SKADI.  2J 

That   surge   through   the   forest,  and   whisper,    and 

rave  ;  — 
*T  is  Njord,  who  is  calling  her  back  to  the  wave. 

And  Njord  hears  a  hill-note  borne  in  on  the  tide, 
When  soft  through  the  sunset  the  lazy  waves  glide, 
Or    tranced    in    the    moonlight    the    weird    water 

shines  ;  — 
'T  is   Skadi,  whose   singing   floats   down   from   her 

pines. 

He  calls,  but  she  leaves  not  her  rock-ranges  free  ; 
She  chants   from   her  woodlands  ;   he    stays   by  the 

sea : 
A  wail  thrills  the  harp-strings  of  heart  lost  to  heart, 
Neither  happy  together,  nor  joyous  apart. 

Of  sea-god  and  hill-maid  remains  not  a  sign, 
Save  the  marriage  of  music  in  billow  and  pine. 
Still   sound   the  Norse   mountains,  the   tide   in   the 

fiord 
With  the  singing  of  Skadi,  the  echo  of  Njord. 


28  THE    OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 


THE   OLD  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

T    PASSED  it  yesterday  again, 

The  school-house  by  the  river, 
Where  you  and  I  were  children,  Jane, 

And  used  to  glow  and  shiver 
In  heats  of  June,  December's  frost ; 

And  where,  in  rainy  weather, 
The  swollen  roadside  brook  we  crossed 

So  many  times  together. 


I  felt  the  trickle  of  the  rain 

From  your  wet  ringlets  dripping ; 
I  caught  your  blue  eye's  twinkle,  Jane, 

When  we  were  nearly  slipping ; 
And  thought,  while  you  in  fear  and  glee 

Were  clinging  to  my  shoulder, 
"  O,  will  she  trust  herself  to  me, 

When  we  are  ten  years  older?" 


THE    OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE.  20, 

For  I  was  full  of  visions  vain, — 

The  boy's  romantic  hunger. 
You  were  the  whole  school's  darling,  Jane, 

And  many  summers  younger. 
Your  head  a  cherub's  used  to  look, 

With  sunbeams  on  it  lying, 
Bent  downward  to  your  spelling-book, 

For  long  and  hard  words  prying. 

The  mountains  through  the  window-pane 

Showered  over  you  their  glory. 
The  awkward  farm-boy  loved  you,  Jane : 

You  know  the  old,,  old  story. 
I  never  watch  the  sunset  now 

Upon  those  misty  ranges, 
But  your  bright  lips,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 

Gleam  out  of  all  its  changes. 

I  wonder  if  you  see  that  chain 

On  memory's  dim  horizon  ; 
There  's  not  a  lovelier  picture,  Jane, 

To  rest  even  your  sweet  eyes  on. 
The  Haystacks  each  an  airy  tent, 

The  Notch  a  gate  of  splendor ; 


30  THE    OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

And  river,  sky,  and  mountains  blent 
In  twilight  radiance  tender. 

I  wonder,  —  with  a  flitting  pain, — 

If  thoughts  of  me  returning, 
Are  mingled  with  the  mountains,  Jane : 

I  stifle  down  that  yearning. — 
A  rich  man's  wife,  on  you  no  claim 

Have  I,  lost  dreams  to  rally ; 
Yet  Pemigewasset  sings  your  name 

Along  its  winding  valley : 

And  once  I  hoped  that  for  us  twain 

Might  fall  one  calm  life-closing ; 
That  Campton  hills  might  guard  us,  Jane, 

In  one  green  grave  reposing. 
They  say  the  old  man's  heart  is  rock: 

You  never  thought  so,  never  ! 
And,  loving  you  alone,  I  lock 

The  school-house  door  forever! 


ELSIE    IN    ILLINOIS.  3 1 


ELSIE   IN   ILLINOIS. 

"IT  OME  is  home,  no  matter  where ! 
Sang  a  happy,  youthful  pair, 
Journeying  westward,  years  ago,  — 
As  they  left  the  April  snow 
White  on  Massachusetts'  shore ; 
Left  the  sea's  incessant  roar ; 
Left  the  Adirondacks,  piled 
Like  the  playthings  of  a  child, 
On  the  horizon's  eastern  bound ; 
And,  the  unbroken  forests  found, 
Heard  Niagara's  sullen  call, 
Hurrying  to  his  headlong  fall, 
Like  a  Titan  in  distress, 
Tearing  through  the  wilderness, 
Rending  earth  apart,  in  hate 
Of  the  unpitying  hounds  of  fate. 

Over  Erie's  green  expanse 

Inland  wild-fowl  weave  their  dance : 


32  ELSIE    IN    ILLINOIS. 

Lakes  on  lakes,  a  crystal  chain, 
Give  the  clear  heaven  back  again ; 
Wampum  strung  by  Manitou, 
Lightly  as  the  beaded  dew. 

Is  it  wave,  or  is  it  shore?  — 
Greener  gleams  the  prairie-floor, 
West  and  south,  one  emerald ; 
Earth  untenanted,  unwalled. 
There,  a  thread  of  silent  joy, 
Winds  the  grass-hid  Illinois. 

Bringing  comfort  unawares 
Out  of  little  daily  cares, 
Here  has  Elsie  lived  a  year, 
Learning  well  that  home  is  dear, 
By  the  green  breadth  measureless 
Of  the  outside  wilderness, 
So  unshadowed,  so  immense  ! 
Garden  without  path  or  fence, 
Rolling  up  its  billowy  bloom 
To  her  low,  one-windowed  room. 

Breath  of  prairie-flowers  is  sweet ; 
But  the  babv  at  her  feet 


ELSIE    IN    ILLINOIS.  33 

Is  the  sweetest  bud  to  her, 
Keeping  such  a  pleasant  stir, 
On  the  cabin  hearth  at  play, 
While  his  father  turns  the  hay, 
Loads  the  grain,  or  binds  the  stack, 
Until  sunset  brings  him  back. 

Elsie's  thoughts  awake  must  keep, 
While  the  baby  lies  asleep. 
Far  Niagara  haunts  her  ears  ; 
Mississippi's  rush  she  hears  ; 
Ancient  nurses  twain,  that  croon 
For  her  babe  their  mighty  tune, 
Lapped  upon  the  prairies  wild : 
He  will  be  a  wondrous  child  ! 

Ah !  but  Elsie's  thoughts  will  stray 
Where,  a  child,  she  used  to  play 
In  the  shadow  of  the  pines  : 
Moss  and  scarlet-berried  vines 
Carpeted  the  granite  ledge, 
Sloping  to  the  brooklet's  edge, 
Sweet  with  violets,  blue  and  white  ; 
While  the  dandelions,  bright 


34  ELSIE   IN    ILLINOIS. 

As  if  Night  had  spilt  her  stars, 
Shone  beneath  the  meadow-bars. 


Could  she  hold  her  babe,  to  look 

In  that  merry,  babbling  brook, — 

See  it  picturing  his  eye 

As  the  violet's  blue  and  shy, — 

See  his  dimpled  fingers  creep 

Where  the  sweet-breathed  May-flowers  peep 

With  pale  pink  anemones, 

Out  among  the  budding  trees !  — 

On  his  soft  cheek  falls  a  tear 

For  the  hillside  home  so  dear. 

At  her  household  work  she  dreams ; 
And  the  endless  prairie  seems 
Like  a  broad,  unmeaning  face 
Read  through  in  a  moment's  space, 
Where  the  smile  so  fixed  is  grown, 
Better  you  would  like  a  frown. 

Elsie  sighs,  "We  learn  too  late, 
Little  things  are  more  than  great. 


ELSIE    IN    ILLINOIS.  35 


Hearts  like  ours  must  daily  be 
Fed  with  some  kind  mystery, 
Hidden  in  a  rocky  nook, 
.  Whispered  from  a  wayside  brook, 
Flashed  on  unexpecting  eyes, 
In  a  winged,  swift  surprise : 
Small  the  pleasure  is  to  trace 
Boundlessness  of  commonplace." 

But  the  south  wind,  stealing  in, 
Her  to  happier  moods  will  win. 
In  and  out  the  little  gate 
Creep  wild  roses  delicate  : 
Fragrant  grasses  hint  a  tale 
Of  the  blossomed  intervale 
Left  behind,  among  the  hills. 
Every  flower-cup  mystery  fills ; 
Every  idle  breeze  goes  by, 
Burdened  with  life's  blissful  sigh. 

Elsie  hums  a  thoughtful  air; 
Spreads  the  table,  sets  a  chair 
Where  her  husband  first  shall  see 


2,6  ELSIE    IN    ILLINOIS. 

Baby  laughing  on  her  knee  ; 
While  she  watches  him  afar, 
Coming  with  the  evening  star 
Through  the  prairie,  through  the  sky, 
Each  as  from  eternity. 


MY    MOUNTAIN.  2)7 


MY  MOUNTAIN. 

T    SHUT  my  eyes  in  the  snow-fall 
And  dream  a  dream  of  the  hills. 
The  sweep  of  a  host  of  mountains, 
The  flash  of  a  hundred  rills, 

For  a  moment  they  crowd  my  vision ; 

Then,  moving  in  troops  along, 
They  leave  me  one  still  mountain-picture, 

The  murmur  of  one  river's  song. 

'T  is  the  musical  Pemigewasset, 
That  sings  to  the  hemlock  trees 

Of  the  pines  on  the  Profile  Mountain, 
Of  the  stony  Face  that  sees, 

Far  down  in  the  vast  rock-hollows 

The  waterfall  of  the  Flume, 
The  blithe  cascade  of  the  Basin, 

And  the  deep  Pool's  lonely  gloom. 


38  MY    MOUNTAIN. 

All  night,  from  the  cottage-window 

I  can  hear  the  river's  tune; 
But  the  hushed  air  gives  no  answer 

Save  the  hemlocks'  sullen  rune. 

A  lamb's  bleat  breaks  through  the  stillness, 
And  into  the  heart  of  night.  — 

Afar  and  around,  the  mountains, 
Veiled  watchers,  expect  the  light. 

Then  up  comes  the  radiant  morning 
To  smile  on  their  vigils  grand. 

Still  muffled  in  cloudy  mantles 
Do  their  stately  ranges  stand  ? 

It  is  not  the  lofty  Haystacks 

Piled  up  by  the  great  Notch-Gate, 

Nor  the  glow  of  the  Cannon  Mountain, 
That  the  Dawn  and  I  await, 

To  loom  out  of  northern  vapors ; 

But  a  shadow,  a  pencilled  line, 
That  grows  to  an  edge  of  opal 

Where  earth-light  and  heaven-light  shine. 


MY    MOUNTAIN.  39 

Now  rose-tints  bloom  from  the  purple  ; 

Now  the  blue  climbs  over  the  green ; 
Now,  bright  in  its  bath  of  sunshine, 

The  whole  grand  Shape  is  seen. 

Is  it  one,  or  unnumbered  summits, — 

The  Vision  so  high,  so  fair, 
Hanging  over  the  singing  River 

In  the  magical  depths  of  air  ? 

Ask  not  the  name  of  my  mountain  ! 

Let  it  rise  in  its  grandeur  lone ; 
Be  it  one  of  a  mighty  thousand, 

Or  a  thousand  blent  in  one. 

Would  a  name  evoke  new  splendor 
From  its  wrapping  and  folds  of  light, 

Or  a  line  of  the  weird  rock-writing 
Make  plainer  to  mortal  sight  ? 

You  have  lived  and  learnt  this  marvel: 

That  the  holiest  joy  that  came 
From  its  beautiful  heaven  to  bless  you, 

Nor  needed  nor  found  a  name. 


40  MY   MOUNTAIN. 

Enough,  on  the  brink  of  the  river 

Looking  up  and  away,  to  know 
That  the  Hill  loves  the  Pemigewasset, 

And  broods  o'er  its  murmurous  flow. 

Perhaps,  if  the  Campton  meadows 
Should  attract  your  pilgrim  feet 

Up  the  summer  road  to  the  mountains, 
You  may  chance  my  dream  to  meet :  — 

Either  mine,  or  one  more  wondrous. 

Or  perhaps  you  will  look,  and  say 
You  behold  only  rocks  and  sunshine, 

Be  it  dying  or  birth  of  day. 

Though  you  find  but  the  stones  that  build  it, 
I  shall  see  through  the  snow-fall  still, 

Hanging  over  the  Pemigewasset, 
My  glorified,  dream-crowned  Hill. 


THE   DISTANT    MOUNTAIN-RANGE.  41 


SONNETS. 


THE   DISTANT   MOUNTAIN-RANGE. 

r  I  AHEY  beckon  from  their  sunset  domes  afar, 
Light's  royal  priesthood*  the  eternal  hills : 

Though  born  of  earth,  robed  of  the  sky  they  are  ; 
And  the  anointing  radiance  heaven  distils 
On  their  high  brows,  the  air  with  glory  fills. 

The  portals  of  the  west  are  opened  wide  ; 
And  lifted  up,  absolved  from  earthly  ills, 

All  thoughts,  a  reverent  throng,  to  worship  glide. 
The  hills  interpret  heavenly  mysteries, 

The  mysteries  of  Light,  —  an  open  book 
Of  Revelation :  see,  its  leaves  unfold 
With  crimson  borderings,  and  lines  of  gold  ! 

Where  the  rapt  reader,  though  soul-deep  his  lcok, 

Dreams  of  a  glory  deeper  than  he  sees. 


42  THE   PRESENCE. 

II. 

THE   PRESENCE. 

r  |  VHE  mountain  statelier  lifts  his  blue-veiled  head. 
While,  drawing  near,  we  meet  him  face  to  face. 
Here,  as  on  holy  ground,  we  softly  tread ; 

Yet,  with  a  tender  and  paternal  grace, 

He  gives  the  wild  flowers  in  his  lap  a  place: 
They  climb  his  sides,  as  fondled  infants  might, 

And  wind  around  him,  in  a  light  embrace, 
Their  summer  drapery,  pink  and  clinging  white. 

Great  hearts  have  largest  room  to  bless  the  small ; 
Strong  natures  give  the  weaker  home  and  rest : 
So  Christ  took  little  children  to  his  breast, 

And,  with  a  reverence  more  profound,  we  fall 
In  the  majestic  presence  that  can  give 
Truth's  simplest  message  :  "  'T  is  by  love  ye  live." 


THE    FAREWELL.  43 

III. 
THE   FAREWELL. 

AT  OW  ends  the  hour's  communion,  near  and  high: 
We  have  heard  whispers  from  the  mountain's 
heart, 
And  life  henceforth  is  nobler.     With  a  sigh 

Of  grateful  sadness,  let  us  now  depart, 

And  seek  our  lower  levels.     Rills  that  start 
From  this  Hill's  bosom,  there  reflect  the  sky; 

And  his  deep  shadows  greener  grace  impart 
To  the  sweet  vale  which  doth  below  him  lie. 

One  farewell  glance  from  far.     The  hills  are  fled! 
Hid  in  the  folds  of  yon  funereal  cloud. 
A  moment  leans  the  Loftiest  from  his  shroud :  — 

"  Our  thunders  cleanse  the  valley,"  lo,  he  saith  : 
"  'T  is  not  alone  by  smiles  that  life  is  fed  : 

Awe  fills  the  sanctuary  of  deep  faith." 


44  AT  WINNIPESAUKEE. 


AT   WINNIPESAUKEE. 

f~\   SILENT  hills  across  the  lake, 

^^   Asleep  in  moonlight,  or  awake 

To  catch  the  color  of  the  sky, 

That  sifts  through  every  cloud  swept  by, — 

How  beautiful  ye  are,  in  change 

Of  sultry  haze  and  storm-light  strange  ; 

How  dream-like  rest  ye  on  the  bar 

That  parts  the  billows  from  the  star ; 

How  blend  your  mists  with  waters  clear, 

Till  earth  floats  off,  and  heaven  seems  near. 

Ye  faint  and  fade,  a  pearly  zone, 
The  coast-line  of  a  land  unknown. 
Yet  that  is  sunburnt  Ossipee, 
Plunged  knee-deep  in  the  limpid  sea : 
Somewhere  among  these  grouping  isles, 
Old  White-Face  from  his  cloud-cap  smiles, 
And  gray  Chocorua  bends  his  crown, 
To  look  on  happy  hamlets  down  ; 
And  every  pass  and  mountain-slope 
Leads  out  and  on  some  human  hope. 


AT    WINNIPESAUKEE.  45 

Here,  the  great  hollows  of  the  hills, 
The  glamour  of  the  June  day  fills. 
Along  the  climbing  path,  the  brier, 
In  rose-bloom  beauty  beckoning  higher, 
Breathes  sweetly  the  warm  uplands  over ; 
And,  gay  with  buttercups  and  clover, 
The  slopes  of  meadowy  freshness  make 
A  green  foil  to  the  sparkling  lake. 

So  is  it  with  yon  hills  that  swim 
Upon  the  horizon,  blue  and  dim : 
For  all  the  summer  is  not  ours ; 
On  other  shores  familiar  flowers 
Find  blossoming  as  fresh  as  these, 
In  shade  and  shine  and  eddying  breeze  ; 
And  scented  slopes  as  cool  and  green 
To  kiss  of  lisping  ripples  lean. 

So  is  it  with  the  land  beyond 

This  earth  we  press  with  step  so  fond. 

Upon  those  faintly-outlined  hills 

God's  sunshine  sleeps,  His  dew  distils : 

The  dear  beatitudes  of  home 

Within  the  heavenly  boundaries  come : 

The  hearts  that  made  life's  fragrance  here 


46  AT   WINNIPESAUKEE. 

To  Eden-haunts  bring  added  cheer; 
And  all  the  beauty,  all  the  good, 
Lost  to  our  lower  altitude, 
Transfigured,  yet  the  same,  are  given 
Upon  the  mountain-heights  of  heaven. 

O  cloud-swathed  hills  the  flood  across, 
Ye  hide  the  mystery  of  our  loss, 
Yet  hide  it  but  a  little  while : 
Past  sunlit  shore  and  shadowy  isle, 
Out  to  the  still  Lake's  farther  brim, 
Erelong  our  bark  the  wave  shall  skim. 
And  what  the  vigor  and  the  glow 
Our  earthly-torpid  souls  shall  know, 
When,  grounding  on  the  silver  sands, 
We  feel  the  clasp  of  loving  hands, 
And  see  the  walls  of  sapphire  gleam, 
Nor  tongue  can  tell,  nor  heart  can  dream. 

But  in  your  rifts  of  wondrous  light 
Wherewith  these  lower  fields  are  bright, 
In  every  strengthening  breeze  that  brings 
The  mountain-health  upon  its  wings, 
We  own  the  gift  of  Pentecost, 
And  not  one  hint  of  heaven  is  lost. 


CHILD    AND    WOMAN 


LITTLE  NANNIE. 

T^AWN-footed  Nannie, 
"*"      Where  have  you  been? 
"Chasing  the  sunbeams 

Into  the  glen  ; 
Plunging  through  silver  lakes 

After  the  moon  ; 
Tracking  o'er  meadows 

The  footsteps  of  June." 

Sunny-eyed  Nannie, 

What  did  you  see  ? 
"Saw  the  fays  sewing 

Green  leaves  on  a  tree ; 
Saw  the  waves  counting 

The  eyes  of  the  stars  ; 
Saw  cloud-lambs  sleeping 

By  sunset's  red  bars." 
3 


50  LITTLE    NANNIE. 

^Listening  Nannie, 

What  did  you  hear? 
"Heard  the  rain  asking 

A  rose  to  appear; 
Heard  the  woods  tell 

When  the  wind  whistled  wrong  ; 
Heard  the  stream  flow 

Where  the  bird  drinks  his  song." 

Nannie,  dear  Nannie, 

O  take  me  with  you, 
To  run  and  to  listen, 

And  see  as  you  do ! 
"Nay,  nay!  you  must  borrow 

My  ear  and  my  eye, 
Or  the  beauty  will  vanish, 

The  music  will  die." 


SWINGING    IN   THE   BARN.  5 1 


SWINGING   IN   THE   BARN. 


OWING  away, 
^  From  the  great  cross-beam, 
Hid  in  heaps  of  clover-hay, 
Scented  like  a  dream. 


Higher  yet ! 
Up,  between  the  eaves, 
Where  the  gray  doves  cooing  flit 
Through  the  sun-gilt  leaves. 

Here  we  go ! 
Whistle,  merry  wind  ! . 
'T  is  a  long  day  you  must  blow, 
Lighter  hearts  to  find. 

Swing  away ! 
Sweep  the  rough  barn  floor ; 
Looking  through  on  Arcady 
Framed  in  by  the  door ! 


52  SWINGING   IN   THE   BARN. 

One,  two,  three  ! 
Quick !  the  round  red  sun, 
Hid  behind  yon  twisted  tree, 
Means  to  end  the  fun. 

Swing  away, 
Over  husks  and  grain ! 
Shall  we  ever  be  as  gay, 
If  we  swing  again  ? 


WATCHING   THE    SNOW.  53 


WATCHING   THE   SNOW. 


o 


SNOW!  flying  hither, 
And  hurrying  thither, 
Here,  there,   through     the    air,  —  you     never     care 
whither,  — 
Do  you  see  me  here  sitting, 
A-knitting,  a-knitting, 
And  wishing  myself  with  you  breezily  flitting, 
Like  any  wild  elf? 

Lo !  light  as  a  feather, 

The  merry  flakes  gather 
In  rifts  and  in  drifts,  glad  enough  of  cold  weather ; 

Gay  throngs  interlacing, 

On  the  slant  roofs  embracing, 
They  slip  and  they  fall !  down,  down  they  are  racing, 

I  after  them  all! 

One  large  flake  advances ; 
'T  is  a  white  steed  that  prances ; 
At  the  bits  as  he  flits,  how  he  foams,  like  my  fancies ! 


54  WATCHING   THE    SNOW. 

Up  softly  I  sidle 
From  where  I  sit  idle, — 
I  snatch,  as  it  flies,  at  the  gossamer  bridle, — 
I  am  mounted,  I  rise! 

Away  we  are  bounding, 

No  hoof-note  resounding, 
Still  as   light  is  our  flight  through  the  armies  sur- 
rounding ; 

No  murmur,  no  rustling, 

Though  millions  are  jostling  ; 
A  host  is  in  camp,  but  you  heard  neither  bustling 

Nor  bugle,  nor  tramp. 

Yet  the  truce-flag  is  lifted ; 

Unfurled  it  lies  drifted 
Over  hill,  over  rill,  where  its  snow  could  be  sifted ; 

And  now  I  'm  returning 

To  parley  concerning 
The  beautiful  cause  that  awakened  my  yearning,  — 

The  trouble  that  was. 

Ho  !  ho  !  a  swift  fairy,  — 
A  pearl-shallop  airy ! 
I  am  caught,  quick  as  thought !  fleece-muffled  and  hairy, 


WATCHING   THE   SNOW.  55 

Her  grim  boatman  tightens 
His  rough  grasp,  and  frightens 
Me  sore,  as  we  sail  to  the  east,  where  it  lightens, 
On  waves  of  the  gale. 

White,  dimpled,  and  winning, 

The  fairy  sits  spinning, 
From  her  hair,  floating  fair,  coils  of  cable  beginning, 

Her  shallop  to  tether 

In  stress  of  bleak  weather, 
While  the  boatman  and  I,  wrapped  in  ermine  together, 

Drift  on  through  the  sky. 

Stay !  the  boat  is  upsetting ! 

My  fairy,  forgetting 
Her  coil  and  her  toil,  to  escape  from  a  wetting, 

Has  now  the  one  notion : 

Below  boils  the  ocean ! 
I  scream,  —  I  am  heard,  —  up,  in  arrowy  motion, 

I  am  borne  by  a  bird ;  — 

A  gray  eagle  !  —  over 
The  seas  flies  the  rover ; 
And  I  ride  as  his  guide,  a  new  world  to  discover. 


56  WATCHING  THE   SNOW. 

He  bears  me  on,  steady, 
Through  whirlwind  and  eddy ; 
I  cling  to  his  neck,  and  he  ever  is  ready 
To  pause  at  my  beck. 

White  doves  through  the  ether 
Come  flocking  together: 
How  they  crowd  to  me,  proud  if  I  smooth  one  soft 
feather  ! 
O  what  is  the  matter? 
They  startle,  —  they  scatter! 
On   the   wet  window-pane   hear   my   eagles   claws 
clatter !  — 
The  snow's  turned  to  rain! 


prude:sxe.  57 


PRUDENCE. 

TX  THAT  is  this  round  world  to  Prudence, 
*  *      With  her  round,  black,  restless  eyes, 

But  a  world  for  knitting  stockings, 
Sweeping  floors,  and  baking  pies  ? 

'T  is  a  world  that  women  work  in, 
Sewing  long  seams,  stitch  by  stitch : 

Barns  for  hay,  and  chests  for  linen  ;  — 
'T  is  a  world  where  men  grow  rich. 

Ten  years  old  is  little  Prudence ; 

Ten  years  older  still  she  seems, 
With  her  busy  eyes  and  fingers, 

With  her  grown-up  thoughts  and  schemes. 

Sunset  is  the  time  for  candles  ; 

Cows  are  milked  at  fall  of  dew  ; 
Beans  will  grow,  and  melons  ripen, 

When  the  summer  skies  are  blue. 


58  PRUDENCE. 

Is  there  more  than  work  in  living? 

Yes ;  a  child  must  go  to  school, 
And  to  meeting  every  Sunday; 

Not  a  heathen  be,  or  fool. 

Something  more  has  haunted  Prudence 
In  the  song  of  bird  and  bee, 

In  the  low  wind's  dreamy  whisper 
Through  the  light-leaved  poplar-tree. 

Something  lingers,  bends  above  her, 
Leaning  at  the  mossy  well ; 

Some  sweet  murmur  from  the  meadows; 
On  the  air  some  gentle  spell. 

But  she  will  not  stop  to  listen:  — 
Maybe  there  are  witches  yet! 

So  she  runs  away  from  beauty; 
Tries  its  presence  to  forget. 

T  is  the  way  her  mother  taught  her ; 

Prudence  is  not  much  to  blame. 
Work  is  good  for  child  or  woman ; 

Childhood's  jailer,— 'tis  a  shame! 


PRUDENCE.  59 

Gravely  at  the  romping  children 
Their  gray  heads  the  gossips  shake ; 

Saying,  with  a  smile  for  Prudence, 
"  What  a  good  wife  she  will  make ! " 


60  BLUE-EYED    GRACE. 


BLUE-EYED   GRACE. 


"X^OUR  walk  is  lonely,  blue-eyed  Grace, 
■*■     Down  the  long  forest-road  to  school, 
Where  shadows  troop,  at  dismal  pace, 
From  sullen  chasm  to  sunless  pool. 
Are  you  not  often,  little  maid, 
Beneath  the  sighing  trees  afraid  ? 


"  Afraid !  beneath  the  tall,  strong  trees 
That  bend  their  arms  to  shelter  me, 

And  whisper  down,  with  dew  and  breeze, 
Sweet  sounds  that  float  on  lovingly, 

Till  every  gorge  and  cavern  seems 

Thrilled  through  and  through  with  fairy  dreams  ? 

"Afraid,  —  beside  the  water  dim, 

That  holds  the  baby  lilies  white 
Upon  its  bosom,  where  a  hymn 

Ripples  forth  softly  to  the  light 
That  now  and  then  comes  gliding  in, 
A  lily's  budding  smile  to  win  ? 
3* 


BLUE-EYED    GRACE.  6 1 

"Fast  to  the  slippery  precipice 

I  see  the  nodding  harebell  cling: 
In  that  blue  eye  no  fear  there  is ; 

Its  hold  is  firm,  —  the  frail,  free  thing! 
The  harebell's  Guardian  cares  for  me, 
So  I  am  in  safe  company. 

"  The  woodbine  clambers  up  the  cliff, 
And  seems  to  murmur,  '  Little  Grace, 

The  sunshine  were  less  welcome,  if 
It  brought  not  every  day  your  face.' 

Red  leaves  slip  down  from  maples  high, 

And  touch  my  cheek  as  they  flit  by. 

"  I  feel  at  home  with  everything 
That  has  its  dwelling  in  the  wood ; 

With  flowers  that  laugh,  and  birds  that  sing; 
Companions  beautiful  and  good, 

Brothers  and  sisters  everywhere ; 

And  over  all  our  Father's  care. 

"  In  rose-time  or  in  berry-time  ; 

When  ripe  seeds  fall,  or  buds  peep  out ; 


62  BLUE-EYED    GRACE. 

When  green  the  turf,  or  white  the  rime, 

There  's  something  to  be  glad  about. 
It  makes  my  heart  bound  just  to  pass 
The  sunbeams  dancing  on  the  grass. 

"And  when  the  bare  rocks  shut  me  in 
Where  not  a  blade  of  grass  will  grow, 

My  happy  fancies  soon  begin 
To  warble  music  rich  and  low, 

And  paint  what  eyes  could  never  see : 

My  thoughts  are  company  for  me. 

"  What  does  it  mean  to  be  alone  ? 

And  how  is  any  one  afraid 
Who  feels  the  dear  God  on  his  throne, 

Sending  his  sunshine  through  the  shade, 
Warming  the  damp  sod  into  bloom, 
And  smiling  off  the  thicket's  gloom  ? 

"At  morning,  down  the  woodpath  cool, 
The  fluttering  leaves  make  cheerful  talk. 

After  the  stifled  day  at  school, 
I  hear,  along  my  homeward  walk, 


BLUE-EYED    GRACE.  63 

The  airy  wisdom  of  the  wood, 
Far  easiest  to  be  understood  ! 

"  I  whisper  to  the  winds ;  I  kiss 

The  rough  old  oak,  and  clasp  his  bark ; 

No  farewell  of  the  thrush  I  miss ; 
I  lift  the  soft  veil  of  the  dark, 

And  say  to  bird,  and  breeze,  and  tree, 

'  Good  night !  good  friends  you  are  to  me  I ' " 


64  ROCK   AND   RILL. 


ROCK  AND   RILL. 

T  NTO  the  sunshine  out  of  shade!" 

The  rill  has  heard  the  call, 
And,  babbling  low,  her  answer  made,  - 
A  laugh,  'twixt  slip  and  fall. 

Out  from  her  cradle-roof  of  trees, 
Over  the  free,  rough  ground  ! 

The  peaceful  blue  above  she  sees ; 
The  cheerful  green  around. 

A  pleasant  world  for  running  streams 
To  steal  unnoticed  through, 

At  play  with  all  the  sweet  sky-gleams, 
And  nothing:  else  to  do ! 


lo 


A  rock  has  stopped  the  silent  rill, 
And  taught  her  how  to  speak : 

He  hinders  her ;  she  chides  him  still ; 
He  loves  her  lispings  meek. 


ROCK   AND    RILL.  6$ 

And  still  he  will  not  let  her  go  : 

But  she  may  chide  and  sing, 
And  o'er  him  liquid  freshness  throw, 

Amid  her  murmuring. 

The  harebell  sees  herself  no  more 

In  waters  clear  at  play  ; 
Yet  never  she  such  azure  wore, 

Till  wept  on  by  the  spray. 

And  many  a  woodland  violet 

Stays  charmed  upon  the  bank ; 
Her  thoughtful  blue  eye  brimming  wet, 

The  rock  and  rill  to  thank. 

The  rill  is  blessing  in  her  talk 

What  half  she  held  a  wrong, — 
The  happy  trouble  of  the  rock 

That  makes  her  life  a  song. 


66  IN    THE   RAIN. 


IN  THE   RAIN. 

A     LIGHT  flashed  up  in  her  sad  blue  eye, 
•*•        Like  a  ray  through  a  break  in  the  cloudy  sky, 

As  she  leaned  at  the  showered  pane. 
"  Thank    Heaven  !    he 's    come  ! "  —  but    the    train 

shrieked  "Nay!" 
And  crashed  o'er  her  dying  hopes  away. 
Still  she  waited  on  till  the  day  was  gone, 
Waited  alone  in  the  rain. 

Ever,  now  and  again,  the  cloud-rack  through 
There  peeped  a  bud  of  the  heavenly  blue,  — 

Blue,  without  speck  or  stain. 
Then  the  young  corn  shook  in  its  jewelled  mist, 
And  the  violets  twinkled,  pure  amethyst ; 
And  her  eye  grew  bright  with  a  dewy  light, 

Waiting  alone  in  the  rain. 

But  the  soft  blue  flower  of  the  sky  shut  up 
Behind  the  tempest  its  hollow  cup ; 
The  meadows  were  dim  again: 


IN   THE    RAIN.  6j 

And  the  warm  light  faded  out  of  her  eyes, 
While  she  paced,  and  gazed  on  the  restless  skies, 
While  she  tried  to  keep  her  wild  heart  asleep, 
Waiting  alone  in  the  rain. 

It  streamed  and  poured  from  the  shelving  bank, 
It  sprinkled  mire  on  the  sedges  rank ; 

It  beat  on  the  springing  grain. 
"  Come  home  !  "  called  the  horn  from  behind  the  hill : 
She  heard,  but  she  lingered  and  listened  still, 
Still,  gazing  back  down  the  iron  track, 

Waited  alone  in  the  rain. 

The  hours  dragged  by ;  it  was  dark  and  late  ; 
The  cars  rushed  on  with  their  throbbing  freight, 

Screaming  a  laugh  at  her  pain. 
But  the  west  uncurtained  a  wide,  clear  space, 
And  the  sunset  lighted  a  laggard  face, 

And  the  wild,  wet  day  stole  in  smiles  away, 

While  two  hurried  home  in  the  rain. 


68  THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


THE   SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

"  T  T  OW  are  you  so  cheerful, 

**    Gentle  Edith  Lane! 
Be  it  bright  or  cloudy, 

Fall  of  dew  or  rain, 
In  that  lonely  schoolhouse, 

Patiently  you  stay, 
Teaching  simple  children, 

All  the  livelong  day." 


"  Teaching  simple  children  ? 

I  am  simple,  too : 
So  we  learn  together 

Lessons  plain  as  true, 
From  this  thumb-worn  Bible, 

Full  of  love's  best  lore ; 
Or,  to  read  another, 

Just  unlatch  the  door. 


THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS.  69 

"  Can  I  but  be  cheerful 

While  I  bid  them  look, 
Through  the  sunny  pages 

Of  each  opening  book  ?  — 
Showing  tracks  of  angels, 

On  the  footworn  sod ; 
Listening  to  the  music 

Nature  makes  to  God." 

"  Have  you  then  no  sorrow, 

Smiling  Edith  Lane  ? 
Where  the  barberry's  coral 

Rattles  on  the  pane, 
Where,  in  endless  yellow, 

Autumn  flowers  I  see, 
Working  for  a  living 

Were  a  woe  to  me." 

"  Sorrow  !  I  —  a  woman, 

And  in  years  not  young  ? 
Of  the  common  chalice, 

Drops  are  on  my  tongue. 
What  of  that  ?     No  whisper 

To  my  heart  is  lost, 


JO  THE   SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

From  the  barberry-clusters, 
Sweetened  by  the  frost ; 


"From  the  rooted  sunshine, — 

Golden-rod  in  bloom, 
Lighting  up  the  hillsides, 

For  November's  gloom. 
Shall  I  blot  with  weeping 

Nature's  joy  and  grace  ? 
Rather  be  her  gladness 

Mirrored  in  my  face. 

"  '  Working  for  a  living '  ? 

May  no  worse  befall ! 
Love  is  always  busy ; 

God  works,  over  all. 
Life  is  worth  the  earning, 

For  its  daily  cheer, 
Shared  with  those  who  love  me, 

In  yon  cottage  dear. 

"  If  you  can,  fair  lady, 
Go  and  be  a  drone! 


THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS.  J I 

Leave  me  with  the  children, 

Dear  as  if  my  own. 
Leave  me  to  the  humming 

Of  my  little  hive, 
Glad  to  earn  a  living, 

Glad  to  be  alive!" 


72  GETTING   ALONG. 


GETTING  ALONG. 

\  T  7"E  trudge  on  together,  my  good  man  and  I, 

Our  steps  growing  slow  as  the  years  hasten  by  ; 
Our  children  are  healthy,  our  neighbors  are  kind, 
And  with  the  world  round  us  we  've  no  fault  to  find, 

'T  is  true  that  he  sometimes  will  choose  the  worst  way 
For  sore  feet  to  walk  in,  a  weary  hot  day ; 
But  then  my  wise  husband  can  scarcely  go  wrong, 
And,  somehow  or  other,  we  're  getting  along. 

There  are  soft  summer  shadows  beneath  our  home- 
trees  : 
How  handsome  he  looks,  sitting  there  at  his  ease ! 
We  watch  the  flocks  coming  while  sunset  grows  dim, 
His  thoughts  on  the  cattle,  and  mine  upon  him. 

The  blackbirds  and  thrushes  come  chattering  near ; 
I  love  the  thieves'  music,  but  listen  with  fear : 


GETTING    ALONG.  73 

He  shoots   the   gay  rogues   I   would   pay  for  their 

song ; — 
We  're  different,  sure  ;  still,  we  're  getting  along. 

He  seems  not  to  know  what  I  eat,  drink,  or  wear ; 
He  's  trim  and  he  's  hearty,  so  why  should  I  care  ? 
No  harsh  word  from  him  my  poor  heart  ever  shocks  : 
I  would  n't  mind  scolding,  —  so  seldom  he  talks. 

Ah,  well !  't  is  too  much  that  we  women  expect : 
He  only  has  promised  to  love  and  protect. 
See,  I  lean  on  my  husband,  so  silent  and  strong  ; 
I  'm    sure    there  's    no    trouble  ;  —  we  're    getting 
along. 

Life  isn't  so  bright  as  it  was  long  ago, 
When  he  visited  me  amid  tempest  and  snow; 
And  would  bring  me  a  ribbon  or  jewel  to  wear, 
And  sometimes  a  rosebud  to  twist  in  my  hair : 

But  when  we  are  girls,  we  can  all  laugh  and  sing  ; 
Of  course,  growing  old,  life  's  a  different  thing  ; 
My  good  man  and  I  have  forgot  our  May  song, 
But  still  we  are  quietly  getting  along. 
4 


74  GETTING   ALONG. 

T  is  true  I  was  rich ;  I  had  treasures  and  land ; 
But  all  that  he  asked  was  my  heart  and  my  hand : 
Though  people  do  say  it,  't  is  what  they  can't  prove,  — 
"  He   married   for   money ;    she,  —  poor   thing  !    for 
love." 

My  fortune  is  his,  and  he  saves  me  its  care  ; 
To  make  his  home  cheerful  's  enough  for  my  share. 
He  seems  always  happy  our  broad  fields  among ; 
And  so  I  'm  contented :  —  we  're  getting  along. 

With  stocks  to  look  after,  investments  to  find, 
It 's  not  very  strange  that  I  'm  seldom  in  mind : 
He  can't  stop  to  see  how  my  time  's  dragging  on, — 
And  oh !  would  he  miss  me,  if  I  should  be  gone  ? 

Should  he  be  called  first,  I  must  follow  him  fast, 
For  all  that's  worth  living  for  then  will  be  past. 
But  I  '11  not  think  of  losing  him  ;  fretting  is  wrong, 
While  we  are  so  pleasantly  getting  along. 


UNWEDDED.  75 


UNWEDDED. 

TOEHOLD  her  there  in  the  evening  sun, 
-^   That  kindles  the  Indian  Summer  trees 
To  a  separate  burning  bush,  one  by  one, 
Wherein  the  Glory  Divine  she  sees ! 

Mate  and  nestlings  she  never  had: 
Kith  and  kindred  have  passed  away  ; 

Yet  the  sunset  is  not  more  gently  glad, 

That  follows  her  shadow,  and  fain  would  stay. 

For  out  of  her  life  goes  a  breath  of  bliss, 
And  a  sunlike  charm  from  her  cheerful  eye, 

That  the  cloud  and  the  loitering  breeze  would  miss ; 
A  balm  that  refreshes  the  passer-by. 

"  Did  she  choose  it,  this  single  life  ? " 
Gossip,  she  saith  not,  and  who  can  tell  ? 

But  many  a  mother,  and  many  a  wife, 

Draws  a  lot  more  lonely,  we  all  know  well. 


/6  UNWEDDED. 

Doubtless  she  had  her  romantic  dream, 
Like  other  maidens,  in  May-time  sweet, 

That  flushes  the  air  with  a  lingering  gleam, 
And  goldens  the  grass  beneath  her  feet:  — 

A  dream  unmoulded  to  visible  form, 

That  keeps  the  world  rosy  with  mists  of  youth, 
And  holds  her  in  loyalty  close  and  warm, 

To  her  fine  ideal  of  manly  truth. 

"  But  is  she  happy,  a  woman,  alone  ? " 
Gossip,  alone  in  this  crowded  earth, 

With  a  voice  to  quiet  its  hourly  moan, 
And  a  smile  to  heighten  its  rarer  mirth  ? 

There  are  ends  more  worthy  than  happiness: 
Who  seeks  it,  is  digging  joy's  grave,  we  know. 

The  blessed  are  they  who  but  live  to  bless  ; 
She  found  out  that  mystery,  long  ago. 

To  her  motherly,  sheltering  atmosphere, 
The  children  hasten  from  icy  homes  : 

The  outcast  is  welcome  to  share  her  cheer  ; 
And  the  saint  with  a  fervent  benison  comes. 


UNWEDDED.  77 

For  the  heart  of  woman  is  large  as  man's ; 

God  gave  her  his  orphaned  world  to  hold, 
And  whispered  through  her  His  deeper  plans 

To  save  it  alive  from  the  outer  cold. 

And  here  is  a  woman  who  understood 

Herself,  her  work,  and  God's  will  with  her, 

To  gather  and  scatter  His  sheaves  of  good, 
And  was  meekly  thankful,  though  men  demur. 

Would  she  have  walked  more  nobly,  think, 
With  a  man  beside  her,  to  point  the  way, 

Hand  joining  hand  in  the  marriage-link? 
Possibly,  Yes :  it  is  likelier,  Nay. 

For  all  men  have  not  wisdom  and  might : 
Love's  eyes  are  tender,  and  blur  the  map ; 

And  a  wife  will  follow  by  faith,  not  sight, 
In  the  chosen  footprint,  at  any  hap. 

In  the  comfort  of  home  who  is  gladder  than  she  ? 

Yet,  stirred  by  no  murmur  of  "might  have  been," 
Her  heart  as  a  carolling  bird  soars  free, 

With  the  song  of  each  nest  she  has  glanced  within. 


73  UN  WEDDED. 

Having  the  whole,  she  covets  no  part : 
Hers  is  the  bliss  of  all  blessed  things. 

The  tears  that  unto  her  eyelids  start, 

Are  those  which  a  generous  pity  brings ; 

Or  the  sympathy  of  heroic  faith 

With  a  holy  purpose,  achieved  or  lost. 

To  stifle  the  truth  is  to  stop  her  breath, 
For  she  rates  a  lie  at  its  deadly  cost. 

Her  friends  are  good  women  and  faithful  men, 
Who  seek  for  the  True,  and  uphold  the  Right ; 

And  who  shall  proclaim  her  the  weaker,  when 
Her  very  presence  puts  sin  to  flight  ? 

"  And  dreads  she  never  the  coming  years  ? " 

Gossip,  what  are  the  years  to  her  ? 
All  winds  are  fair,  and  the  harbor  nears, 

And  every  breeze  a  delight  will  stir. 

Transfigured  under  the  sunset  trees, 

That  wreathe  her  with  shadowy  gold  and  red, 
She  looks  away  to  the  purple  seas, 

Whereon  her  shallop  will  soon  be  sped. 


UNWEDDED.  79 

She  reads  the  hereafter  by  the  here : 
A  beautiful  Now,  and  a  better  To  Be  : 

In  life  is  all  sweetness,  in  death  no  fear. — 
You  waste  your  pity  on  such  as  she. 


SO  CHRIEMHILD. 


CHRIEMHILD. 


"\70TJ  know  the  strange  old  Nibelungen  story, 
The  fitful,  billowy  song  of  love  and  hate, — 
Of  rare  Chriemhild,  and  her  rose-garden's  glory 
By  wrath  laid  desolate  ? 


Glad  shines  that  garden,  with  its  leagues  of  roses, 

Midway  the  old  time  and  the  new  between  ; 
Yet  not  a  flower  its  silken  bar  encloses, 
So  sweet  as  the  Rose-Queen. 

She  walks  there  in  the  young  world's  radiant  morning, 

Intwining  hero-garlands,  redly  gay, 
For  her  twelve  knights,  who,  armed  for  battle-warning, 
To  watch  the  garden  stay. 

She  seeks,  undaunted,  its  remotest  edges, 

Cut  from  the  forest's  still  and  murky  gloom, 
Where,  right  against  weird  glens  and  caverned  ledges, 
The  freshest  roses  bloom. 


CHRIEMHILD.  8  [ 

Black  shadows,  in  behind  the  beech-leaves  hidden, 

That  lean  to  clutch  the  sunshine's  falling  gold, 
And    dim,    deep     thickets,    by    white    glimmerings 
thridden, 

Send  her  no  thrill  of  cold. 

And  she  can  hear,  by  woman's  fears  unshaken, 

The  warrior  pine's  long  requiem  on   the  air, 
And  winds  astray,  that  from  lone  hollows  waken 
A  wail,  as  of  despair. 

She  can  pluck  roses,  unaware  of  danger, 

Since  innocence  keeps  watch  and  ward  within  : 
To  evil  dreads  a  careless,  happy  stranger, 
Unvisited  of  sin. 

One  night  a  dream  alighted  in  her  bower : 
A  mystic  falcon  perched  upon  her  hand  ; 
Daring  and  beautiful,  he  curbed  his  power, 
As  waiting  her  command. 

Then  two  fierce  eagles  through  the  azure  swooping, 

Plunged  into  that  brave  bird  their  cruel  claws, 
And    snatched    him    from    her    sight,    with    sorrow 
drooping  ; 

Ah  !  bitter  was  the  cause  ! 

4*  F 


82  CHRIEMHILD. 

For  Siegfried  was  that  falcon,  her  heart's  chosen, 

Though   yet  in  maiden  thought  forsworn  unseen. 
An  honored  wife,  —  a  widow  horror-frozen,  — 
So  reads  thy  fate,  sweet  queen. 

Sweet  queen !  alas,  alas !  sweet  queen  no  longer : 

In  fury  and  in  anguish  ends  the  dream ; 
The  lurid  lines  of  destiny  burn  stronger, 
And  hide  her  beauty's  beam. 

Gaze  long  upon  the  dear,  sad  face  before  you, 

For  never  lovelier  ladye  will  you  see 
In  dew,  and  balm,  and  freshness  bending  o'er  you,  — 
The  Rose  of  Burgundy. 

'T  is  on  the  wall  of  a  Bavarian  palace ; 1 
A  fresco  by  a  master-limner  wrought ; 
You  see  Chriemhild  herself,  ere  wasting  malice 
Had  all  to  ruin  brought. 

She  clings  to  Siegfried,  holding  on  her  finger, 

The  falcon  of  her  vision,  —  ominous  bird  ! 
While  far  off,  where  her  chieftain's  glances  linger, 
The  rush  of  doom  is  heard. 


CHRIEMHILD.  83 

Behold  the  nucleus  of  the  old  song's  glory. 

This  is  the  picture  of  Chriemhild  to  keep; 
For  you  can  only  finish  the  mad  story, 
To  shudder  and  to  weep. 

Link  not  her  name  with  Etzel's  barbarous  splendor, 
Nor  the  bold  Nibelung  race  she  snared  to  death : 
Embalm  her  memory,  womanly  and  tender, 
In  love's  most  sacred  breath ! 

You  happier  women  of  these  later  ages, 

With  white  hands  by  her  hideous  guilt  unsoiled,  — 
Had  she  read  forward  her  own  history's  pages, 
Like  you  she  had  recoiled. 

Who  hears,  in  that  young,  rapturous  inspiration, 

When  every  thought  takes  up  its  harp  and  sings, 
The  undertone  of  demon-visitation 

Muttering  beneath  Love's  wings  ? 

Mean  jealousies  her  queenly  bosom  fluttered, 

Wakening  to  war  the  monstrous  brood  of  crime, 
Dragon  with  fiend,  until  her  tale  is  uttered, 
A  fear  unto  all  time. 


84  CHRIEMHILD. 

Nay ;  end  it  with  this  portrait  of  a  woman, 

To  whom  is  possible  yet  a  perfect  lot. 
When  beauty  once  has  blossomed  in  the  human, 
Its  blight  remember  not. 

Even  blotted  so,  her  story  is  immortal. 

Transfigured  by  her  love,  Chriemhild  shall  stand, 
Alway  with  Siegfried  at  the  palace-portal, 
The  dream-bird  on  her  hand. 


LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL.  85 


LEGEND   OF   A  VEIL.2 

QEVEN  hundred  years  ago,  a  pair  on  whom 
^   The  accidental  honor  of  a  crown 
Had  worthily  fallen,  in  their  morning  hour 
Of  bridal  bliss,  stood  hand  in  hand,  and  gazed 
Into  a  world  which  love  makes  Eden  still ; 
Leopold  of  Austria  and  his  Swabian  bride. 
The  old  baronial  rampart  where  they  stood 
Frowned  down  upon  Vienna,  that  smiled  back. 
They,  in  the  open  balcony  of  oak, 
Sunlit  and  airy,  saw  the  wide  earth  bloom 
Around  them  like  one  flower,  as  lovers  will : 
And,  for  a  while,  they  silently  were  glad. 
Then,  out  of  his  full  joy,  young  Leopold  spoke  : 

"  Beloved,  see  this  beauteous  realm  of  mine, 
Whereof  thou  reignest  queen.     How  all  things  smile 
To  welcome  thy  sweet  looks !    How  every  herb 
And  bough  and  thicket  upward  sends  to  thee 
A  pleasant  smell !    And  He  is  surely  pleased, 


86  LEGEND    OF   A    VEIL. 

Who  sits  above  the  sun,  and  makes  the  world 

Blossom  with  gladness,  —  He  is  surely  pleased 

To  see  us  stand  here  happy  in  His  sight. 

Yet  not  even  love  brings  satisfying  bliss : 

No  joy  that  overflows  must  run  to  waste. 

And  work  awaits  us  in  this  Paradise, — 

Where    thou    shalt    be    my   helpmeet ;    thou,    mine 

Eve ! 
Rulers  are  gardeners  only.     Thou  and  I 
Will  toil  among  the  earth-bedraggled  vines 
And  frost-nipped  blossoms  of  humanity, 
Till  life  around  looks  fresh  as  Nature  does, 
Sunned  in  our  love,  and  in  the  smile  of  God. 

"Before  I  saw  thy  face,  the  mother  of  Christ 

Was  ever  as  a  light  amid  my  thoughts, 

Charming  me  forth  unto  heroic  deeds  ; 

Showing  the  way  of  lowly  sacrifice 

Where     kingly    souls    with     her    dear     Son    must 

walk. 
My  Agnes,  from  thy  gentle  eye  distils 
A  ray  more  luminous  in  its  tenderness 
Through  every  inmost  channel  of  resolve. 
Thy  woman's  soul  with  my  man's  mind  shall  blend, 


LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL.  8y 

One  work,  one  inspiration  :    I  shall  rule 
Nobly  through  thee,  my  bride,  my  beautiful ! " 

As  one  who  tunes  a  flute  among  the  hills, 
And  hears,  entranced,  the  music  eddying  back 
In  palpitating  echoes  through  the  air, 
All  unaware  that  he  awoke  that  joy, 
Agnes  took  softly  up  her  husband's  word 
In  charmed  unconsciousness : 

"O  beautiful  life, 

0  beautiful  world,  wherein  I  live  with  thee  ! 
Thanks  unto  God,  who  made  thee  first  my  friend, 
Then  lover  and  husband.     Little  would  it  be 

To  stand  beside  thee  here,  thy  wife  and  queen, 

Were  I  not  raised  to  nobler  eminence, 

Lifted  to  share  with  thee  both  work  and  thought, 

Mate  of  thine  aspirations.     Friend,  best  friend, 

And  dearest  always  by  that  name  to  me, 

Because  the  name  is  an  immortal  one,  — 

Might  I  not  look  as  now  in  thy  soul's  eyes, 

And  feel  thy  love  through  larger  and  through  less, 

Diffusing  calm,  opening  new  wells  of  joy 

That  rise  beyond  expression,  making  all 

1  share  with  thee  as  sacramental  food, 


88  LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL. 

What  had  been  left  ?    The  thought  is  bitter  bleak  : 

Dreary  and  gray  as  the  Siberian  wilds, 

Had  spread  my  life.     But  God  would  still  have  been : 

I  should  have  met  him  in  the  wilderness, 

Thee,  afterward,  perhaps,  in  Heaven. 

Mine  own  ! 
Whene'er  I  hear  the  convent  vesper-bell, 
Or  echo  of  a  midnight  cloister-chant, 
The  manly  chorals  in  sonorous  praise 
Responding  to  the  unseen  sisters'  hymn, 
I  think  there  may  be  hearts  like  thine  and  mine, 
Hidden  behind  the  nun's  veil  and  the  cowl, 
Forever  separated,  yet  so  near ! 
God  listens  through  the  screens  they  cannot  lift ; 
The  chords  lost  here  ring  full  in  heaven.     And  yet 
'T  is  surely  better  to  strike  all  the  keys 
Of  this  our  manifold  being  to  His  praise, 
Sending    through    low  and    high,    through    discords 

even, 
One  thrill  of  unison.     All  we  have  is  His, 
And  we  ourselves ;  and  we  will  live  so  here, 
That  in  that  land  where  are  no  marriages, 
We  shall  forever  in  one  mansion  dwell, 
Still  finding  Heaven  in  some  joint  work  for  Him. 


LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL.  89 

Ah,  what  can  Heaven  be,  and  this  earth  so  fair? 

River  that  waterest  Eden,  art  thou  then 

More  glorious  than  our  Danube,  when  the  doors 

Of  the  East  are  open,  and  the  sunshine  pours 

Upon  his  path  between  the  solemn  hills, 

And  over  the  green,  grateful  fields  ?     And  thou, 

City  of  Light,  aglow  with  jasper  walls 

And  gates  of  pearl,  art  thou  more  beautiful 

Than  our  Vienna,  lifting  up  her  hands 

To  us  from  cottage-lattice,  tower,  and  spire, 

Beckoning  from  her  innumerable  lives 

That  we  can  bless,  and  shall  ? 

O  royal  life, 
Royal  to  all  who  carry  royal  hearts, 
Thou  shalt  be  benediction  to  our  realm  ! 
Let  us  build  tabernacles  here,  beloved, 
On  durable  foundations  of  deep  bliss. 
Upon  some  height  let  us  set  up  a  house, 
A  home  for  holy  men,  to  sanctify 
The  memory  of  this,  our  marriage-day." 

So  spake  that  happy  bride,  and  upward  looked 
To  meet  the  answer  of  her  husband's  eyes. 
Bending,  he  lifted  her  white,  floating  veil, 


90  LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL. 

And  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips,  and  said 
With  reverent  earnestness,  "We  will." 

The  wind, 
The  only  listener  passing,  heard  their  vow, 
And  suddenly  and  lightly  took  the  veil 
And  bore  it  far  along  the  orange -boughs, 
And  over  the  rose-gardens  all  in  bloom, 
And  hid  it  in  the  green  woods  out  of  sight. 

Then  Leopold  sent  out  squires  to  bring  it  back, 

For  Agnes'  sake,  who  could  not  bear  to  lose 

One  token  of  their  married  happiness  ; 

But  none  could  find  it.     And  the  cheerful  years 

Passed  over  them  like  days,  filled  to  the  brim 

With  princely  undertakings,  and  perfumed 

With  gratitude,  which  every  princely  heart 

Takes  as  a  spur  to  steadier  energy, 

And  fervor  of  well-doing  :  so  the  vow 

Of  that  fair  morning  from  their  memory  passed. 

Years  after,  as  a  summer  twilight  fell, 
Giving  his  flagging  steed  a  languid  rein, 
Duke  Leopold  let  his  huntsmen  homeward  ride 
Far  out  of  sight  before  him.     Through  a  glen 


LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL.  91 

He  loitered  on,  where  never  hoof  had  trod, 

Crushing  the  juicy  bracken  and  crisp  turf, 

All  spray,  and  spice,  and  coolness  ;    under  pines 

That  lifted  their  green  tops  like  minster-spires 

Into  blue  light  above,  and  hid  their  ranks 

Of  spectral  stems  and  dimly-woven  boughs 

In  deeper  than  cathedral  gloom  behind. 

Out  of  the  wood  a  silent  rivulet  stole, 

And  caught  the  red  of  sunset,  and  then  crept 

Into  the  shadow  of  the  beckoning  ferns. 

A  bird  trilled  from  a  bush :  within  the  wood 

Another  answered  ;  then  a  hundred  sang. 

The  shivering  sweetness  through  the  bracken  passed, 

And  Leopold  halted.     Standing  by  his  steed, 

Against  the  darkened  forest,  with  the  glow 

Of  sunset  falling  on  his  upturned  brow, 

Strange  peace  enthralled  him  ;  and  subdued  he  said, 

"  This  is  a  holy  place,  a  holy  hour : 

Here  might  the  angels  walk." 

Even  while  he  spoke, 
He  caught  a  glimpse  of  wavering  whiteness  swayed 
Within  a  dingle  close  at  hand.     Thereat 
Startled  one  moment,  instincts  of  a  knight 
In  the  next  spurred  him  towards  the  mystery, 


92  LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL. 

And  lo,  the  veil  of  Agnes !     It  had  hung 
Here,  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  wood, 
Heaven-kept,  while  robber-tempests  went  and  came, 
With  the  birds  singing  round  it,  and  the  flowers 
Filling  it  with  perfume,  from  spring  to  spring, 
In  token  of  a  promise  unfulfilled. 
Leopold  was  touched.     Yet,  thridding  a  blind  path 
Out  of  the  glimmering  twilight  of  the  pines, 
"Ever,"  he  said,  "I  doubted  if  the  monks 
Praised  God  so  well  as  many  an  honest  serf, 
Who  earned  his  bread  and  ate  it  thankfully. 
They  pitch  their  notes  too  high  for  humble  folk, 
And  call  the  common  singing  sacrilege. 
If  peasants  thank  our  Lord  for  anything, 
It  is  for  wife,  and  little  ones,  and  home, 
As  I  for  my  sweet  Agnes  and  her  babes. 
No  saintly  joy  is  this,  the  brethren  say, 
And  pity  us  and  pray  for  us,  and  wrap 
Themselves  in  cloaks  of  sanctity,  and  walk 
Their  shining  road  to  heaven  above  our  heads,  — 
Pavement  of  gold  that  we  must  keep  repaired, 
Whate'er  befalls  us  in  the  thoroughfare, 
Or  on  the  broken  bridge  across  the  chasm. 
Labor,  methinks,  and  prayer  are  of  one  piece. 


LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL.  93 

Nay,  toil  is  also  praise,  the  best,  from  those 
Whose  ringers  are  more  flexile  than  their  tongues. 

"  Alack !   what  do  I  murmur  to  myself  ? 

Agnes  would  grieve  to  overhear  these  thoughts. 

She  likens  prayers  and  hymns  unto  a  stream 

Flowing  amid  the  sandy  wastes  of  life, 

Watering  the  roots  of  action  ;  nerving  up 

The  earnest  toiler's  strength  ;  the  wine  of  heaven. 

Our  priests  sit  at  the  guarded  fountain-head, 

To  keep  the  waters  pure,  and  pour  the  wine 

For  fainting  pilgrims.     Niggardly  it  were, 

Saith  she,  to  grudge  thern  shelter,  who  prepare 

A  tent  for  us  amid  the  wilderness. 

And  Agnes  is  to  me  what  all  these  hymns 

And  chants  and  mighty  chorals  are  to  her, — 

A  glorious  lifting-up  ;   to  heart,  delight ; 

To  hands,  unbounded  strength.     I  would  I  were 

A  good  King  Robert3  for  her  sake,  to  vein 

The  court  and  camp  with  rills  of  saintly  song, 

A  thrill  of  Veni  Sancte  Spiritus 

To  waken  underneath  the  satin  scarfs 

And  ermine  mantles  of  my  followers. 

I  am  but  Leopold,  an  ungifted  man, 


94  LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL. 

Save  for  my  ducal  crown  and  her  dear  love. 
A  vow  is  still  a  vow,  though  tardily  kept. 
She  shall  behold  a  stately  cloister  built 
Within  the  glen  that  hid  her  bridal  veil. 
And  I  will  toil  on,  hoping  yet  to  see 
Each  hut  within  my  realm  a  home  like  mine, 
And  every  peasant  happy  as  a  duke." 

So  Kloster-Neuberg  rose  among  the  hills ; 
There  Agnes'  veil  is  shrined,  and  Leopold  there 
Is  worshipped  as  a  saint. 

Good  man,  he  sleeps 
Too  soundly  to  be  vexed  by  anything 
That  may  be  said  or  sung  above  his  grave. 
Perhaps  he  would  have  thought  the  monks  misplaced 
The  aureole  that  they  set  upon  his  brow, 
Not  on  his  bride's.     No  doubt  he  would  have  asked 
To  be  remembered  for  some  other  work 
Than  convent-building :  but  he  could  not  choose  ; 
He  is  a  saint  perforce.     The  healthier  grace 
Of  honorable  manhood  counts  him  naught, 
And  less  than  naught  his  household  happiness: 
Within  the  threshold  laid  by  wedded  joy, 
The  very  thought  of  it  is  sacrilege. 


LEGEND    OF    A    VEIL.  95 

And  yet  the  buried  sweetness  of  true  love 

That  once   hung   rose-wreaths   round   the  Austrian 

throne, 
The  brethren  with  a  deprecating  sigh 
Will  sometimes  air,  unfolding  Agnes'  veil. 


FROM     WITHOUT. 


ENTANGLED. 

T)IRDS  among  the  budding  trees, 

Blossoms  on  the  ringing  ground : 
Light  from  those  ?  or  song  from  these  ? 
Can  the  tangle  be  unwound? 

For  the  bluebird's  warbled  note, 

Violet-odors  hither  flung  ; 
And  the  violet  curved  her  throat, 

Just  as  if  she  sat  and  sung. 

Dandelions  dressed  in  gold, 

Give  out  echoes  clear  and  loud, 

To  the  oriole's  story,  told 

With  gay  poise  and  gesture  proud. 

And  the  swaying  yellow-bird, 

Trilling,  thrills  their  hollow  stems, 


100  ENTANGLED. 

Until  every  root  is  stirred, 
Under  their  dropped  diadems. 

Swallows  thicken  through  the  air, — 
Curve  and  drift  of  plumy  brown,  — 

Wafting,  showering  everywhere, 
Melody's  light  seed-notes  down. 

Beauty,  music  on  the  earth  ; 

Music,  beauty  in  the  sky ; 
Guess  the  mystery  of  their  birth ! 

All  the  haunting  what  and  why. 

Nature  weaves  a  marvellous  braid ; 

Tints  and  tones  how  deftly  blent . 
Who  unwinds  the  web  she  made  ? 

Thou,  who  wearest  her  wise  content. 

Wrapped  within  her  beauty's  fold, 
Of  her  song  thyself  a  part, 

Plainly  are  her  secrets  told 
Unto  thee,  O  pure  of  heart ! 


THE   RIDDLE    OF    BEAUTY.  10 1 


THE   RIDDLE   OF   BEAUTY. 

T3  ROWN  bird  of  spring,  on  pinion  soft 

Ascending, 
A  voice  to  reddening  dawn  aloft 
Thus  lending  ; 
Few  heed  thy  song  ;  why  is  it  sweet  ? 
Why  art  thou  beautiful  as  fleet, 

Light  comer, 
Bewildered  in  the  stir  and  heat 
Of  summer  ? 

White  clouds,  that  over  the  blue  sky 

Are  pressing, 
The  pilots  of  an  argosy 
Of  blessing  ; 
Ye  float  with  all  your  sails  unfurled 
Above  a  dull,  unconscious  world  ; 

None  caring 
Whence  ye  those  fleeces,  golden-curled, 
Are  bearing. 


102  THE  RIDDLE  OF  BEAUTY. 

Blue  autumn  flower,  thy  deep  heart  stores 

Heaven's  azure ; 
And  thence  from  out  thy  chalice  pours 
Rare  pleasure. 
The  frost  a  plague-spot  blackening  casts ; 
Thy  fringe  is  torn  when  sleety  blasts 
Grow  stronger  ; 
Men  love  thee  while  thy  beauty  lasts ; 
No  longer. 

Thou  maid,  around  whose  lip  and  eye 

Intwining, 
The  loveliest  tints  of  earth  and  sky 
Are  shining,  — 
Thy  sweet  song  dies  ;  thy  freshness  must 
Fade  like  a  flower's,  by  blight  and  dust 
O'ertaken  ; 
And  all  the  roots  of  mortal  trust 
Are  shaken. 

O,  why  should  thus  the  beautiful 

O'erbrood  us, 
Yet  ever  its  harmonious  rule 

Elude  us  ? 


THE    RIDDLE    OF    BEAUTY.  103 

The  grave  its  hopeless  blot  may  be  ; 
Largess  to  eyes  that  cannot  see 
'T  is  giving : 
The  joy,  the  pain,  the  mystery 
Of  living. 

Say  whence,  O  Beauty,  floatest  thou, 

And  whither? 
But  in  a  shade,  an  echo  now 
Swept  hither. 
Born  with  the  sounds  that  hurry  past  ? 
Dead  with  the  shapes  that  flee  so  fast  ? 
O,  never ! 
The  soul  of  each  fair  thing  must  last 
Forever. 

The  glory  of  the  rose  remains 

Unfaded, 
Though  now  no  wreath  from   blossoming  lanes 
Be  braided. 
A  word  unknown  she  drooping  said ; 
A  breath  was  in  her,  from  the  dead 
To  waft  her : 
And  Beauty's  riddle  shall  be  read 
Hereafter. 


104  HINTS. 


HINTS. 

O  WEET  Nature,  speak  to  me ! 

^^  I  have  been  listening  so  long,  so  long ! 
The  goldfinch  round  the  linden  winds  his  song : 
A  spangled  butterfly  just  flew  this  way, 
And  stopped,  as  if  he  had  some  word  to  say; 
The  water-lily's  leaves  are  half  apart, 
Pale  with  some  secret  hidden  in  her  heart. 
I  hear,  but  yet  the  inner  sense  is  sealed  ; 
For  me  there  is  a  mystery  unrevealed : 
Sweet  Nature,  speak  to  me ! 

Dear  Book  of  Mystery, 
Whose  leaves  a  breeze  of  June  is  turning  o'er, 
To  show  me  one  forgotten  word  the  more, 
The  living  truths  upon  thy   page  are  dry 
As  last  year's  violets  that  beside  them  lie : 
The  pastures  green,  the  waters  flowing  still, 
The    shepherds'    watch    on    Bethlehem's    moonlit 
hill, 


HINTS.  105 

Are  but  as  tales  of  any  common  book: 
Where  is  the  light  by  which  my  soul  should  look, 
Dear  Book  of  Mystery? 

Love  is  both  eye  and  ear. 
When  like  the  west  wind  breathes  my  longing  prayer, 
Pausing  the  need  of  humblest  hearts  to  share, 
Then  will  sweet  parables  unfold  their  sense, 
And  Nature  speak  with  all  her  eloquence. 
Let  the  heart  stagnate  o'er  its  selfish  dreams, 
And  life  a  veiled  and  silent  statue  seems : 
Leaning  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Lord, 
Love  hears  the  lightest  whispers  of  His  word. 

Love  is  both  eye  and  ear. 


The  grace  of  the  bending  grasses, 

The  flush  of  the  dawn-lit  sky, 
The  scent  that  lingers  and  passes 

When  the  loitering  wind  goes  by, — 
Are  gushes  and  hints  of  sweetness, 

From  the  unseen  deeps  afar ; 
The  foam-edge  of  heaven's  completeness 

Swept  outward  through  flower  and  star. 
5* 


106  HINTS. 

For  the  cloud,  and  the  leaf,  and  the  blossom, 

The  shadow,  the  flickering  beam, 
Are  waifs  on  the  sea-like  bosom 

Of  beauty  beyond  our  dream : 
Its  glow  to  our  earth  is  given ; 

It  freshens  this  lower  air : 
O,  the  fathomless  wells  of  heaven,  — 

The  springs  of  the  earth  rise  there ! 


They  whose  hearts  are  whole  and  strong, 

Loving  holiness, 
Living  clean  from  soil  of  wrong, 

Wearing  truth's  white  dress, — 
They  unto  no  far-off  height 

Wearily  need  climb  ; 
Heaven  to  them  is  close  in  sight 

From  these  shores  of  time. 

Only  the  anointed  eye 

Sees  in  common  things, — 

Gleams  dropped  daily  from  the  sky, — 
Heavenly  blossomings. 


HINTS.  107 

To  the  hearts  where  light  has  birth 

Nothing  can  be  drear ; 
Budding  through  the  bloom  of  earth, 

Heaven  is  always  near. 


"  Take   the   fruit    I    give    you,"   says   the   bending 

tree  ; 
"  Nothing  but  a  burden  is  it  all  to  me. 
Lighten  ye  my  branches  :   let  them  toss  in  air  ! 
Only  leave  me  freedom  next  year's  load  to  bear." 

"  Do    my    waters    cheer    thee,"    says    the    gurgling 

spring, 
"  With  the  crystal  coolness  't  is  their  life  to  bring  ? 
Leave  me  not  to  stagnate,  creeping  o'er  the  plain  ; 
Drink  for  thy  refreshment ;  drink,  and  come  again  ! " 

"  Can  I  yield  you  blessings  ? "  says  the  friendly 
heart. 

'*  Fear  not  I  am  poorer,  though  I  much  impart. 

Wherefore  should  you  thank  me  ?  giving  is  my 
need. 

Love  that  wrought  none  comfort  sorrow  were  in- 
deed." 


108  HINTS. 


The  curtain  of  the  dark 
Is  pierced  by  many  a  rent : 

Out  of  the  star-wells,  spark  on  spark 
Trickles  through  night's  torn  tent. 

Grief  is  a  tattered  tent 

Wherethrough  God's  light  doth  shine. 
Who  glances  up,  at  every  rent 

Shall  catch  a  ray  divine. 


Thou  mayst  not  rest  in  any  lovely  thing, 

Thou,  who  wert  formed  to  seek  and  to  aspire  ; 

For  no  fulfilment  of  thy  dreams  can  bring 
The  answer  to  thy  measureless  desire. 

The  beauty  of  the  round,  green  world  is  not 
Of  the  world's  essence ;  far  within  the  sky 

The    tints    which    make    this    bubble    bright    are 
wrought : 
The  bubble  bursts  ;    the  light  can  never  die. 


HINTS.  109 

Thou  canst  not  make  a  pillow  for  thy  head 

Of  anything  so  brittle  and  so  frail  ; 
Yet  mayst  thou  by  its  transient  glow  be  led 

Into  the  heaven  where  sun  and  star  grow  pale  ; 

Where,  out  of  burning  whiteness,  flows  the  light  ; 

Light,  which  is  but  the  visible  stream  of  love ;  — 
Hope's  ladder,  brightening  upward  through  the 
night, 

Whereon  our  feet  grow  winged  as  they  move. 

Let  beauty  sink  in  light  ;  in  central  deeps 
Of  love  unseen,  let  dearest  eyes  grow  dim : 

They  draw  us  after,  up  the  infinite  steeps 
Where  souls  familiar  track  the  seraphim. 


110  THE    DEATH   OF  JUNE. 


THE   DEATH    OF. JUNE. 

JUNE  falls  asleep  upon  her  bier  of  flowers : 
In  vain  are  dewdrops  sprinkled  over  her ; 
In  vain  would  fond  winds  fan  her  back  to  life. 
Her  hours  are  numbered  on  the  floral  dial ; 
Astrsea's  scales  have  weighed  her  minutes  out, 
Poised  on  the  Zodiac  ;  and  the  Northern  Crown 
Hangs  sparkling  in  the  Zenith  just  at  eve, 
To  show  a  queen  is  passing.     See  where  stands, 
Pausing  on  tiptoe,  with  full,  flushing  lips, 
And  outstretched  arms,  her  sister,  bright  July, 
Eager  to  kiss  the  blossoms,  that  will  fade 
If  her  hot  breath  but  touch  them. 

June  is  dead. 
Dead,  without  dread  or  pain,  her  gayest  wreaths 
Twined  with  her  own  hands  for  her  funeral. 
At  first  she  smiled  upon  us,  garlanded 
With  columbines  and   azure  lupine-buds ; 
But  now  we  find  a  few  pale  roses,  dropped 
In  her  last  dreamy  loitering  through  the  fields, 


THE    DEATH    OF  JUNE.  Ill 

Or  see  her  wild  geraniums  by  the  brook ; 
Her  laurels  and  azalias  in  the  woods. 
These  gather  we  as  keepsakes  of  dear  June, 
Though  not  unmindful  of  the  humbler  flowers 
That  thought  it  joy  to  bloom  around  her  feet;  — 
The  buttercups  and  blue-eyed-grass  that  peeped 
Under  the  wayside  bars  at  travellers ; 
Prunella  lingering  in  the  wagon's  track ; 
The  evening  primrose,  glimmering  like  a  star 
When  the  sun  set ;  and  the  prim  mullein  too, 
Folded  in  flannels  from  the  eastern  winds, 
Damp  dews,  and  reckless  songs  of  bob-o'-links. 

A  warmer  reign  begins,  and  they  must  fade 

Beneath  its  splendor;    even  these  richer  blooms, — 

Orchis  and  Arethusa  quaintly  robed, 

And  harebells  nodding  to  blue  skies  and  streams, 

And  white  pond-lilies,  scarcely  opening 

[n  time  to  catch  the  farewell  look  of  June : 

But  the  midsummer  air  is  balmy  yet, 

With   the    sweet,  lingering   breath   of  flowers   that 

died, 
And  left  their  fragrance  for  a  legacy 
To  weary  dusty  days  they  never  saw. 


112  THE    DEATH    OF  JUNE. 

Nature  has  meanings  for  the  wise  to  guess. 

The  grass  springs  up  like  good   thoughts  in  a  soul 

That  loves  and  blesses  all  things,  high  and  low. 

The  rose  breathes  out  a  passion  and  a  beauty 

Far  sweeter  than  her  bloom.     And  God  sends  man, 

When  he  approaches  heaven  with  lofty  words, 

To  the  green  cloisters,  where,  from  whitest  calm, 

The  lily  of  the  valley's  incense-cloud 

Ascends  to  Him  like  an  unspoken  prayer. 

The  universe  is  one  great,  loving  thought, 

Written  in  hieroglyphs  of  bud  and  bloom  ; 

And  we  in  human  faces,  human  forms, 

Not  overgrown  or  ruinous  with  sin, 

The  same  inspiring  characters  may  read ; 

May  feel  sweet  emanations  from  the  life 

Of  one  whose  soul  is  closely  knit  with  God's, 

As  if  the  gates  of  balmy  Paradise 

Again  swung  open  to  this  outcast  world. 

Creator,  Father !   Thou  art  nature's  wealth. 
Suns,  blossoms,  insects,  worlds,  and  souls  of  men, 
Draw  life's  deep  joy  from  Thee,  their  treasury. 
Oft,  like  a  beggar  suddenly  made  rich, 
I  sink  beneath  the  overpowering  sense 


THE    DEATH   OF   JUNE.  1 13 

Of  Thee  in  all  things.     Sometimes  't  is  the  moon, 
Orbed  like  an  Eye  dilating  with  calm  love, 
That  drowns  me  in  pale,  silent  waves  of  light ; 
Sometimes  it  is  the  mighty,  shadowing  hills, 
That  crush  me  with  a  greatness  not  their  own: 
Or  stars  burn  glory  through  me,  living  coals 
On  the  heaped  altar  of  the  universe. 

But  whispers  oftener,  borne  from  common  things, 

Waken  a  subtle  faculty  within, 

A  sense  of  deeper  beauty  yet  unbreathed : 

As  Asgard's  warder  at  the  rainbow-bridge 

Sat  listening  through  all  seasons,  and  could  hear 

The  grass  grow  leagues  away,  —  so  comes  to  me 

A  golden  gladness,  with  keen,  delicate  edge 

Piercing  the  films  that  wrap  the  inner  sense, 

Making  it  joy  to  think  of  swelling  buds, 

And  fruit  slow-ripening  on  the  apple-trees, 

And  young  birds  fledging  in  the  robin's  nest : 

By  every  outward  sluice  runs  through  my  soul, 

And  overflows  its  brim,  the  thought  of  Thee ! 

But  the  swift  memory  of  man  and  sin 
Returns,  and  drains  away  my  happiness. 


114  THE   DEATH    OF   JUNE. 

O  God !  that  man  were  good !   That  he  would  not 
Make  himself  pestilent  by  brooding  long 
O'er  evil  thoughts  and  deeds,  —  a  wind  that  lurks 
For  poisons  in  the  marsh :  —  that  he  were  true 
And  loving,  like  all  natural  things,  that  grow 
Best  in  the  sunshine,  drawing  from  Thy  light 
Their  joy,   their    strength  from   working  Thy   firm 

will ! 
Then  were  this  human  life  a  summer  breeze 
Freshening  the  earth  with  balmy  draughts  of  bloom  ; 
And  death  were  but  subsiding  into  heaven, 
As  June  flowers  softly  fade  upon  the  light 
Of  brighter  noons,  yet  leave  their  breath  behind. 


THE    INDIAN    SUMMER.  115 


THE   INDIAN   SUMMER. 


T 


IS  the  time 
When  the  chime 
Of  the  seasons'  choral  band  is  ringing  out. 

Smoky  brightness  fills  the  air, 

For  the  light  winds  everywhere 
Censers  full  of  flowery  embers  swing  about. 

There  is  sweetness  that  oppresses, 

As  a  tender  parting  blesses ; 

There  's  a  softened  glow  of  beauty, 

As  when  Love  is  wreathing  Duty  ; 

There  are  melodies  that  seem 
Weaving  past  and  future  into  one  fair  dream. 

To  her  bier 
Comes  the  year 
Not  with  weeping  and  distress,  as  mortals  do; 
But,  to  guide  her  way  to  it, 
All  the  trees  have  torches  lit ; 
Blazing  red  the  maples  shine  the  woodlands  through ; 


Il6  THE    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

Gay  witch-hazels  in  the  river 
Watch  their  own  bright  tapers  quiver; 
Flickering  burn  the  birches  yellow 
Through  the  walnuts  brown  and  mellow; 
Dark,  sad  pines  stand  breathless  by, 
Mourners  sole,  and  mourning  that  they  cannot  die 


Through  the  trees 
Tolls  the  breeze. 
Tolls,  then  rings  a  merry  peal,  and  tolls  again. 

Dead  leaves,  shaken  by  the  sound, 

Slowly  float  and  drop  around. 
So  does  memory  lull  or  echo  thoughts  of  pain. 

Dead  leaves  lie  upon  earth's  bosom, 

Side  by  side  with  many  a  blossom  ; 

Gentians,  fringed  with  azure  glory, — 

Sky-flakes,  dropped  on  meadows  hoary ; 

Asters,  thick  and  bright  as  sparks 
Struck  by  seraph  oarsmen  from  their  starry  barks 

O,  to  die 
When  the  sky 
Smiles  behind  the  Indian  Summer's  hazy  veil ! 


THE    INDIAN    SUMMER,  117 

Thus  to  glorify  decay, 

Going  in  life's  best  array, 
Unto  groves  where  death  is  a  forgotten  tale, 

Falls  a  sorrow  on  the  spirit  ? 

Heavenly  hopes  are  springing  near  it. 

Earth,  a  happy  child,  rejoices, 

Keeping  time  with  angel  voices. 

When  such  autumn  days  are  done, 
There 's    a    crown    behind    thy    rays,    thou    setting 

sun ! 


Il8  WOULD    YOU  ? 


WOULD   YOU? 

/"^OULD  you  keep  the  tints  of  spring 
On  the  woods  in  misty  brightness ; 
Keep  the  half-veiled  boughs  a-swing 

To  the  linnet's  flitting  lightness ; 
Through  the  birch  leaves'  rippling  green 

Hold  the  maple-keys  from  dropping ; 
On  the  sward  with  May-showers  clean, 

Cheat  the  violets  into  stopping ; 

Could  you  make  the  rosebud's  lips 

Vow  to  be  a  bud  forever ; 
From  the  sedges'  wavering  tips, 

Bid  the  pendent  dewdrop  never  ; 
Could  you  make  the  sunrise  hour 
For  a  lifetime  overbrood  you ; 
Could  you  change  the  year's  full  dower 

For  its  first  faint  promise,  —  would  you  ? 

Though  joy  beads  the  cup  we  quaff, 
Bubbling  from  the  fount  of  morning, 


WOULD    YOU  ?  119 

When  the  world  is  all  a  laugh, 

And  a  welcome  without  warning ; 
At  life's  Cana-feast,  the  guest, 

Lingering  on  with  thirst  unsated, 
Finds  a  later  draught  the  best : 

Miracles,  —  when  thou  hast  waited  ! 

Thought  must  shade  and  sun  the  soul 

With  its  glorious  mutations ; 
Every  life-song  is  a  whole 

Sweeter  for  its  variations. 
Wherefore  with  your  bliss  at  strife  ? 

'T  was  an  angel  that  withstood  you. 
Could  you  change  your  perfect  life 

For  a  dream  of  living,  —  would  you  ? 


120  BETTER. 


T 


BETTER. 

HAT  haunting  dream  of  Better, 
Forever  at  our  side  ! 
It  tints  the  far  horizon, 

It  sparkles  on  the  tide. 
The  cradle  of  the  Present 

Too  narrow  is  for  rest : 
The  feet  of  the  Immortal 

Leap  forth  to  seek  the  Best. 

O  beauty,  trailing  sadness  ! 

Despair,  hope's  loftiest  birth  ! 
With  tears  and  aspirations 

Have  ye  bedewed  the  earth. 
The  opening  buds  of  April 

Untimely  frost  may  chill ; 
The  soul  of  sweet  October 

Faints  out  in  mystery  still. 

What  buriest  thou,  gay  childhood  ? 
Swift  youth,  what  fled  with  thee  ? 


BETTER.  121 

Laugh'st  at  our  losses,  Sorrow, 

As  in  some  godlike  glee  ? 
Away,  away  forever 

Our  vessels  seem  to  sail : 
The  Eternal  Breath  o'ertakes  them  ; 

Home  speeds  them  every  gale. 

The  filmy  gold  and  purple 

Swathed  not  the  hills  we  trod  : 
'Twas  hard  and  common  climbing, 

The  bramble  and  the  clod. 
The  bitterness  we  tasted 

Was  Truth's  most  wholesome  leaven : 
The  friends  that  left  us  lonely 

Are  opening  doors  in  heaven. 

And  now  the  deeper  midnight 

Uncovers  larger  stars  ; 
And  grafts  of  glory  bourgeon 

From  earthly  blights  and  scars. 
And  now  the  mists  are  lifting  — 

The  tides  are  rushing  in  — 
'T  is  sunrise  on  the  mountains  !  ■ — 

Lo  !   life  is  yet  to  win  ! 
6 


122  THE   ROSE   ENTHRONED. 


THE   ROSE   ENTHRONED. 

I"  T  melts  and  seethes,  the  chaos  that  shall  grow 

To  adamant  beneath  the  house  of  life  ; 
In  hissing  hatred  atoms  clash,  and  go* 
To  meet  intenser  strife. 

And  ere  that  fever  leaves  the  granite  veins, 

Down  thunders  over  them  a  torrid  sea : 
Now  Flood,  now  Fire,  alternate  despot  reigns, 
Immortal  foes  to  be. 

Built  by  the  warring  elements,  they  rise, 

The  massive  earth-foundations,  tier'  on  tier, 
Where  slimy  monsters  with  unhuman  eyes 
Their  hideous  heads  uprear. 

The  building  of  the  world  is  not  for  you, 

That  glare  upon  each  other,  and  devour : 
Race  floating  after  race  fades  out  of  view, 
Till  beauty  springs  from  power. 


THE   ROSE    ENTHRONED.  1 23 

Meanwhile  from  crumbling  rocks  and  shoals  of  death 

Shoots  up  rank  verdure  to  the  hidden  sun  ; 
The  gulfs   are  eddying  to   the  vague,  sweet   breath 
Of  richer  life  begun  ; 

Richer  and  sweeter  far  than  aught  before, 

Though  rooted  in  the  grave  of  what  has  been  : 
Unnumbered  burials  yet  must  heap  Earth's  floor 
Ere  she  her  heir  shall  win  ; 

And  ever  nobler  lives  and  deaths  more  grand, 
For  nourishment  of  that  which  is  to  come  ; 
While  mid  the  ruins  of  the  work  she  planned 
Sits  Nature,  blind  and  dumb. 

For  whom  or  what  she  plans,  she  knows  no  more 

Than  any  mother  of  her  unborn  child  : 
Yet  beautiful  forewarnings  murmur  o'er 
Her  desolations  wild. 

Slowly  the  clamor  and  the  clash  subside  ; 

Earth's  restlessness  her  patient  hopes  subdue  ; 
Mild  oceans  shoreward  heave  a  pulse-like  tide  ; 
The  skies  are  veined  with  blue. 


124  THE   ROSE   ENTHRONED. 

And  life  works  through  the  growing  quietness, 

To  bring  some  darling  mystery  into  form  : 
Beauty  her  fairest  Possible  would  dress 
In  colors  pure  and  warm. 

Within  the  depths  of  palpitating  seas 

A  tender  tint,  —  anon  a  line  of  grace, 
Some  lovely  thought  from  its  dull  atom  frees, 
The  coming  joy  to  trace :  — 

A  pencilled  moss  on  tablets  of  the  sand, 

Such  as  shall  veil  the  unbudded  maiden-blush 
Of  beauty  yet  to  gladden  the  green  land  ;  — 
A  breathing,  through  the  hush, 

Of  some  sealed  perfume  longing  to  burst  out, 
And  give  its  prisoned  rapture  to  the  air  ;  — 
A  brooding  hope,  a  promise  through  a  doubt, 
Is  whispered  everywhere. 

And,  every  dawn  a  shade  more  clear,  the  skies 
A  flush  as  from  the  heart  of  heaven  disclose  : 
Through  earth  and  sea  and  air  a  message  flies, 
Prophetic  of  the  Rose. 


THE   ROSE   ENTHRONED.  125 

At  last  a  morning  comes,  of  sunshine  still, 

When  not  a  dewdrop  trembles  on  the  grass, 
When  all  winds  sleep,  and  every  pool  and  rill 
Is  like  a  burnished  glass 

Where  a  long  looked-for  guest  might  lean  to  gaze ; 

When  Day  on  Earth  rests  royally,  —  a  crown 
Of  molten  glory,  flashing  diamond  rays, 
From  heaven  let  lightly  down. 

In  golden  silence,  breathless,  all  things  stand  ; 
What  answer  waits  this  questioning  repose  ? 
A.  sudden  gush  of  light  and  odors  bland, 

And,  lo,  —  the  Rose  !   the  Rose  ! 

The  birds  break  into  canticles  around  ; 
The  winds  lift  Jubilate  to  the  skies  ; 
For,  twin-born  with  the  rose  on  Eden-ground, 
Love  blooms  in  human  eyes. 

Life's  marvellous  queen-flower  blossoms  only  so, 

In  dust  of  low  ideals  rooted  fast. 
Ever  the  Beautiful  is  moulded  slow 
From  truth  in  errors  past. 


126  THE   ROSE   ENTHRONED. 

What  fiery  fields  of  Chaos  must  be  won, 

What  battling  Titans  rear  themselves  a  tomb, 
What  births  and  resurrections  greet  the  sun 
Before  the  rose  can  bloom  ! 

And  of  some  wonder-blossom  yet  we  dream 

Whereof  the  time  that  is  infolds  the  seed  ; 
Some  flower  of  light,  to  which  the  Rose  shall  seem 
A  fair  and  fragile  weed. 


W  AR-M  EMORIES. 


THE  NINETEENTH   OF  APRIL. 

[1861.] 

r  I  ^HIS  year,  till  late  in  April,  the  snow  fell  thick 

and  light : 
Thy  flag  of  truce,  kind  Nature,  in  clinging  drifts  of 

white, 
Hung    over   field   and    city :  —  now   everywhere    is 

seen, 
In  place  of  that  white  quietness,  a  sudden  glow  of 

green. 

The  verdure  climbs  the  Common,  beneath  the  leaf- 
less trees, 

To  where  the  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  are  float- 
ing on  the  breeze. 

There,    suddenly   as    Spring    awoke    from   Winter's 
snow-draped  gloom, 

The  Passion-Flower  of  Seventy-Six  is  bursting  into 
bloom. 

6*  1 


I30  THE   NINETEENTH   OF  APRIL. 

Dear   is   the   time   of  roses,  when   earth   to  joy  is 

wed, 
And   garden-plat   and   meadow  wear  one  generous 

flush  of  red  ; 
But  now  in  dearer  beauty,  to  her  ancient  colors  true, 
Blooms  the  old  town  of  Boston  in  red  and  white  and 

blue. 

Along  the  whole  awakening  North  are  those  bright 

emblems  spread  ; 
A  summer  noon  of  patriotism  is  burning  overhead. 
No  party  badges  flaunting  now,  —  no  word  of  clique 

or  clan  ; 
But  "  Up   for  God   and  Union  ! "   is   the   shout   of 

every  man. 

O,  peace  is  dear  to  Northern  hearts ;  our  hard- 
earned  homes  more  dear  ; 

But  Freedom  is  beyond  the  price  of  any  earthly 
cheer  ; 

And  Freedom's  flag  is  sacred ;  —  he  who  would 
work  it  harm, 

Let  him,  although  a  brother,  beware  our  strong 
right  arm  ! 


THE   NINETEENTH   OF   APRIL.  131 

A  brother  !  ah,  the  sorrow,  the  anguish  of  that  word  ! 
The  fratricidal  strife   begun,  when  will   its   end  be 

heard  ? 
Not  this  the  boon  that  patriot  hearts  have  prayed 

and  waited  for  ;  — 
We  loved  them,  and  we  longed  for  peace  :  but  they 

would  have  it  war. 

Yes  ;  war !  on  this  memorial  day,  the  day  of  Lex- 
ington, 

A  lightning-thrill  along  the  wires  from  heart  to 
heart  has  run. 

Brave  men  we  gazed  on  yesterday,  to-day  for  us  have 
bled: 

Again  is  Massachusetts  blood  the  first  for  freedom  shed. 

To  war,  —  and  with    our  brethren,  then,  —  if  only 

this  can  be  ! 
Life   hangs   as   nothing   in   the  scale  against   dear 

Liberty  ! 
Though   hearts   be   torn   asunder,  for  Freedom   we 

will  fight : 
Our  blood  may  seal  the  victory,  but  God  will  shield 

the  Right! 


132  THE   SINKING   OF   THE    MERRIMACK. 


THE   SINKING  OF   THE  MERRIMACK. 

[May,  1862.] 

f~~*  ONE  down   in  the  flood,  and  gone  out  in  the 

^     flame ! 

What   else   could   she   do,  with   her   fair   Northern 

name  ? 
Her  font  was  a  river  whose  last  drop  is  free : 
That  river  ran  boiling  with  wrath  to  the  sea, 
To  hear  of  her  baptismal  blessing  profaned, — 
A  name  that  was  Freedom's,  by  treachery  stained. 

'T  was   the  voice  of  our   free  Northern   mountains 

that  broke 
In  the  sound  of  her  guns,  from   her   stout   ribs  of 

oak  : 
'T  was  the  might  of  the   free  Northern   hand   you 

could  feel 
In  her  sweep    and   her   moulding,  from  topmast  to 

keel : 


THE   SINKING    OF    THE    MERRIMACK.  1 33 

When  they  made  her  speak  treason  (does  Hell  know 

of  worse  ? ) 
How  her  strong   timbers  shook  with  the  shame  of 

her  curse ! 

Let  her  go  !    Should  a  deck  so  polluted  again 
Ever  ring  to  the  tread  of  our  true  Northern  men  ? 
Let  the  suicide-ship  thunder  forth,  to  the  air 
And  the  sea  she  has  blotted,  her  groan  of  despair ! 
Let  her  last  heat  of  anguish  throb  out  into  flame, 
Then  sink  them  together,  —  the  ship  and  the  name ! 


134  WEAVING. 


WEAVING. 

A  LL  day  she  stands  before  her  loom  ; 
■*■        The  flying  shuttles  come  and  go : 
By  grassy  fields,  and  trees  in  bloom, 

She  sees  the  winding  river  flow. 
And  fancy's  shuttle  flieth  wide, 
And  faster  than  the  waters  glide. 

Is  she  entangled  in  her  dreams, 
Like  that  fair  weaver  of  Shalott, 

Who  left  her  mystic  mirror's  gleams, 
To  gaze  on  light  Sir  Lancelot  ? 

Her  heart,  a  mirror  sadly  true, 

Brings  gloomier  visions  into  view. 

"  I  weave,  and  weave,  the  livelong  day : 
The  woof  is  strong,  the  warp  is  good  : 

I  weave,  to  be  my  mother's  stay ; 
I  weave,  to  win  my  daily  food  : 

But  ever  as  I  weave,"  saith  she, 

"  The  world  of  women  haunteth  me. 


WEAVING.  135 

"The  river  glides  along,  one  thread 

In  nature's  mesh,  so  beautiful ! 
The  stars  are  woven  in  ;  the  red 

Of  sunrise  ;  and  the  rain-cloud  dull. 
Each  seems  a  separate  wonder  wrought ; 
Each  blends  with  some  more  wondrous  thought. 

"  So,  at  the  loom  of  life,  we  weave 
Our  separate  shreds,  that  varying  fall, 

Some  stained,  some  fair  ;  and,  passing,  leave 
To  God  the  gathering  up  of  all, 

In  that  full  pattern,  wherein  man 

Works  blindly  out  the  eternal  plan. 

"In  his  vast  work,  for  good  or  ill, 
The  undone  and  the  done  he  blends. 

With  whatsoever  woof  we  fill, 

To  our  weak  hands  His  might  He  lends, 

And  gives  the  threads  beneath  His  eye 

The  texture  of  eternity. 

"Wind  on,  by  willow  and  by  pine, 
Thou  blue,  untroubled  Merrimack ! 


I36  WEAVING. 

Afar,  by  sunnier  streams  than  tnine, 

My  sisters  toil,  with  foreheads  black ; 
And  water  with  their  blood  this  root, 
Whereof  we  gather  bounteous  fruit. 

"  There  be  sad  women,  sick  and  poor ; 

And  those  who  walk  in  garments  soiled : 
Their  shame,  their  sorrow,  I  endure  ; 

By  their  defect  my  hope  is  foiled  : 
The  blot  they  bear  is  on  my  name  ; 
Who  sins,  and  I  am  not  to  blame  ? 

"And  how  much  of  your  wrong  is  mine, 
Dark  women  slaving  at  the  South  ? 

Of  your  stolen  grapes  I  quaff  the  wine  ; 
The  bread  you  starve  for  fills  my  mouth: 

The  beam  unwinds,  but  every  thread 

With  blood  of  strangled  souls  is  red. 

"If  this  be  so,  we  win  and  wear 
A  Nessus-robe  of  poisoned  cloth  ; 

Or  weave  them  shrouds  they  may  not  wear, 
Fathers  and  brothers  falling  both 


WEAVING..  137 

On  ghastly,  death-sown  fields,  that  lie 
Beneath  the  tearless  Southern  sky. 

"Alas!   the  weft  has  lost  its  white. 

It  grows  a  hideous  tapestry, 
That  pictures  war's  abhorrent  sight :  — 

Unroll  not,  web  of  destiny  ! 
Be  the  dark  volume  left  unread,  — 
The  tale  untold,  —  the  curse  unsaid  ! " 

So  up  and  down  before  her  loom 

She  paces  on,  and  to  and  fro, 
Till  sunset  fills  the  dusty  room, 

And  makes  the  water  redly  glow, 
As  if  the  Merrimack's  calm  flood 
Were  changed  into  a  stream  of  blood. 

Too  soon  fulfilled,  and  all  too  true 

The  words  she  murmured  as  she  wrought ! 

But,  weary  weaver,  not  to  you 

Alone  was  war's  stern  message  brought : 

"  Woman  ! "   it  knelled  from  heart  to  heart, 

"  Thy  sister's  keeper  know  thou  art ! " 


138  WAITING   FOR   NEWS. 


WAITING  FOR  NEWS. 

[July  4,  1863.] 

A  T  the  corner  of  the  lane, 

Where  we  stood  this  time  last  year, 
Droops  and  waves  the  ripening  grain  ; 
Sounds  the  meadow-lark's  refrain, 
Just  as  sad  and  clear. 

Cornel-trees  let  blossoms  fall 

In  a  white  shower  at  my  feet; 
Thick  viburnums  hide  the  wall ; 
And  behind,  the  bush-bird's  call 
Bubbles,  summery-sweet, 

Now,  as  then,  o'er  purple  blooms 

Veiled  by  meadow-grasses  rare  ; 
Bubbles  through  the  coppice  glooms  ; 
Joins  the  sweetbrier's  late  perfumes 
Wandering  through  the  air. 


WAITING   FOR   NEWS.  139 

All  returns  ;  —  your  word,  your  look, 

As  we  stood  where  now  I  stand  :  — 
With  a  dread  I  could  not  brook, 
Well  I  knew  my  faint  voice  shook, 
While  you  held  my  hand. 

Firm  you  always  were,  and  then 

High  resolve  had  made  you  strong. 
Could  I  bid  you  linger,  when 
Freedom  called  aloud  for  men 
To  requite  her  wrong  ? 

Southrons  threw  their  gauntlet-lie 
In  the  face  of  God  and  Truth. 
"  Go,  for  love's  sake  !  "   was  my  cry  ; 
"Were  not  Truth  more  dear  than  I, 
Thou  wert  naught,  in  sooth ! " 

And  you  went.     The  whole  year  through, 

I  have  felt  war's  thunder-quake 
Rend  me  hour  by  hour  anew : 
Yet  I  would  not  call  for  you, 

Though  my  heart  should  break. 


140  WAITING   FOR   NEWS. 

Only,  standing  here  to-day, 

With  the  sweetbrier's  wandering  breath, 
And  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay 
In  the  air,  "This  life,"  I  say, 

"Strikes  deep  root  in  death." 

Death !  while  here  I  pass  the  hours, 

Blood  is  rising  round  your  feet : 
I  sit  ankle-deep  in  flowers  : 
On  you,  red  shot  falls  in  showers, 
Through  the  battle-heat. 

What  if  there  I  saw  you  lie, 

Where  the  grasses  nod  and  blow, 
With  your  forehead  to  the  sky, 
And  your  wounds  —     O  God  !   that  I,  — 
That  I  bade  you  go  ! 

Yet,  were  that  to  say  once  more, 
"  Go,"  I  'd  say,  "  at  any  cost !  " 
Many  a  heart  has  bled  before. 
God  his  heroes  will  restore  ; 
No  great  soul  is  lost 


WAITING    FOR   NEWS.  I4I 

And  the  strife  that  rages  so 

Burns  out  meanness  from  the  land. 
Men  must  fall,  and  blood  must  flow, 
That  our  Plants  of  Honor  grow 
Unto  stature  grand. 

Ay,  to-day  it  seems  to  me, 

That  yon  little  straggling  rose 
Fed  by  War's  red  springs  must  be  : 
All  of  fair  and  good  I  see, 
Out  of  anguish  grows. 

Vines  that  shade  the  cottage-home  ; 
Laurels  for  the  warrior's  wreath  ; 
Lilies  of  white  peace,  that  bloom 
After  battle's  lurid  gloom  ;  — 
All  are  nursed  by  death. 

By  our  bond,  I  'm  close  to-day 

As  your  sword  is,  to  your  side. 
If  your  breath  stops  in  the  fray, 
Watchers  from  above  will  say, 
Two  for  freedom  died. 


142  WAITING   FOR   NEWS. 

Still  I  loiter  in  the  lane, — 

If  I  might  but  send  you,  dear, 
Sweetbrier  scents,  the  lark's  refrain, 
They  would  soothe  the  battle-pain  ; 
You  should  feel  me  near: 

And  the  fresh  thought  of  these  fields 

With  new  strength  would  nerve  your  arm. 
Fearlessly  his  sword  he  wields, 
Whose  whole  risk  is  what  it  shields, — 
Home-love,  pure  and  warm. 

And  you  ventured  this  ;  you  gave 

Freely  all  your  wealth  of  life, 
That  the  Stars  and  Stripes  might  wave 
Nevermore  above  a  slave. 
Cheerfully  your  wife 

Climbs  with  you  great  Freedom's  pyre, — 

Not  as  Hindoo  widows  die. 
We  to  life  in  Life  aspire  : 
Love's  last  height  is  our  desire  ; 
Lo  !   we  tread  the  sky ! 


WAITING   FOR   NEWS.  1 43 

Treading  with  a  joyful  scorn 

Selfish  joy  beneath  our  feet : 
In  a  nation's  hope  new-born, 
In  a  free  world's  radiant  morn, 
Breathing  bliss  complete. 

Hark  !   a  jubilee  of  bells 

Pealing  through  the  sunset  light, 
Shaking  out  fresh  clover-smells  ! 
Parting  day  to-morrow  tells, 
Victory  's  in  sight. 

Hark,  again  !  the  long,  shrill  blast 

Eager  throngs  are  waiting  for. 
Is  it  Death's  train,  sweeping  past  ? 
Homeward,  Heart !    Pain  cannot  last. 
What  news  from  the  war  ? 


I44  A  LOYAL  WOMAN'S  NO. 


A  LOYAL  WOMAN'S  NO. 

NO  I  is  my  answer  from  this  cold,  bleak  ridge, 
Down  to  your  valley  :  you  may  rest  you  there. 
The  gulf  is  wide,  and  none  can  build  a  bridge 
That  your  gross  weight  would  safely  hither  bear. 

Pity  me,  if  you  will.    I  look  at  you 

With  something  that  is  kinder  far  than  scorn, 

And  think,  "Ah,  well!  I  might  have  grovelled,  too; 
I   might   have   walked   there,   fettered   and    for- 
sworn." 

I  am  of  nature  weak  as  others  are  ; 

I  might  have  chosen  comfortable  ways  ; 
Once  from  these  heights  I  shrank,  beheld  afar, 

In  the  soft  lap  of  quiet,  easy  days. 

I  might, -I  will  not  hide  it, -once  I  might 
Have  lost,  in  the  warm  whirlpools  of  your  voice, 

The  sense  of  Evil,  the  stern  cry  of  Right ; 
But  Truth  has  steered  me  free,  and  I  rejoice. 


A    LOYAL    WOMAN'S    NO.  145 

Not  with  the  triumph  that  looks  back  to  jeer 
At  the  poor  herd  that  call  their  misery  bliss  ; 

But  as  a  mortal  speaks  when  God  is  near, 
I  drop  you  down  my  answer  :  it  is  this  : 

I  am  not  yours,  because  you  prize  in  me 
What  is  the  lowest  in  my  own  esteem  : 

Only  my  flowery  levels  can  you  see, 

Nor  of  my  heaven-smit  summits  do  you  dream, 

I  am  not  yours,  because  you  love  yourself: 
Your  heart  has  scarcely  room  for  me  beside. 

I  will  not  be  shut  in  with  name  and  pelf; 
I  spurn  the  shelter  of  your  narrow  pride  ! 

Not  yours,  —  because  you  are  not  man  enough 
To  grasp  your  country's  measure  of  a  man. 

If  such  as  you,  when  Freedom's  ways  are  rough, 
Cannot  walk  in  them,  learn  that  women  can  ! 

Not  yours,  —  because,  in  this  the  nation's  need, 
You  stoop  to  bend  her  losses  to  your  gain, 

And  do  not  feel  the  meanness  of  your  deed  ;  — 
I  touch  no  palm  denied  with  such  a  stain  ! 
7  J 


I46  A    LOYAL    WOMAN'S    NO. 

Whether  man's  thought  can  find  too  lofty  steeps 
For  woman's  scaling,  care  not  I  to  know  ; 

But  when  he  falters  by  her  side,  or  creeps, 
She  must  not  clog  her  soul  with  him  to  go. 

Who  weds  me  must  at  least  with  equal  pace 
Sometimes  move  with  me  at  my  being's  height : 

To  follow  him  to  his  superior  place, 

His  rarer  atmosphere,  were  keen  delight. 

You  lure  me  to  the  valley  :  men  should  call 
Up  to  the  mountains,  where  the  air  is  clear. 

Win  me  and  help  me  climbing,  if  at  all  ! 

Beyond  these  peaks  great  harmonies  I  hear  :  — 

The  morning  chant  of  Liberty  and  Law ! 

The  dawn  pours  in,  to  wash  out  Slavery's  blot  ; 
Fairer  than  aught  the  bright  sun  ever  saw, 

Rises  a  Nation  without  stain  or  spot ! 

The  men  and  women  mated  for  that  time 
Tread  not  the  soothing  mosses  of  the  plain  ; 

Their  hands  are  joined  in  sacrifice  sublime  ; 
Their  feet  firm  set  in  upward  paths  of  pain. 


A   LOYAL    WOMAN'S    NO.  1 47 

Sleep  your  thick  sleep,  and  go  your  drowsy  way ! 

You  cannot  hear  the  voices  in  the  air  ! 
Ignoble  souls  will  shrivel  in  that  day ; 

The  brightness  of  its  coming  can  you  bear  ? 

For  me,  I  do  not  walk  these  hills  alone : 

Heroes  who  poured  their  blood  out  for  the  truth, 

Women  whose  hearts  bled,  martyrs  all  unknown, 
Here  catch  the  sunrise  of  immortal  youth 

On  their  pale  cheeks  and  consecrated  brows  :  — 
It  charms  me  not,  your  call  to  rest  below. 

I  press  their  hands,  my  lips  pronounce  their  vows : 
Take  my  life's  silence  for  your  answer  :    No  ! 


I48  RE-ENLISTED. 


RE-ENLISTED. 

[May,  1 864-] 

f~\    DID  you  see  him  in  the  street,  dressed  up  id 
^~>^      army-blue, 
When  drums  and  trumpets   into    town   their  storm 

of  music  threw,  — 
A  louder  tune  than  all  the  winds  could   muster  in 

the  air, 
The  Rebel  winds,  that   tried    so    hard    our   flag   in 

strips  to  tear  ? 

You  did  n't  mind  him  ?  O,  you  looked  beyond  him 
then,  perhaps, 

To  see  the  mounted  officers  rigged  out  with  trooper- 
caps, 

And  shiny  clothes,  and  sashes,  and  epaulets  and 
all  ;  — 

It  was  n't  for  such  things  as  these  he  heard  his 
country  call. 


RE-ENLISTED.  1 49 

She  asked  for  men  ;  and  up  he  spoke,  my  hand- 
some, hearty  Sam, 

"  I  '11  die  for  the  dear  old  Union,  if  she  '11  take  me 
as  I  am." 

And  if  a  better  man  than  he  there  's  mother  that 
can  show, 

From  Maine  to  Minnesota,  then  let  the  nation 
know. 

You  would  not  pick  him  from  the  rest  by  eagles 
or  by  stars, 

By  straps  upon  his  coat-sleeve,  or  gold  or  silver  bars ; 

Nor  a  corporal's  strip  of  worsted,  but  there  's  some- 
thing in  his  face, 

And  something  in  his  even  step,  a-marching  in  his 
place, 

That  could  n't   be  improved   by  all   the  badges  in 

the  land  : 
A  patriot,  and    a  good,  strong   man  ;    are   generals 

much  more  grand  ? 
We  rest  our  pride  on  that   big   heart  wrapped    up 

in  army-blue, 
The  girl  he  loves,  Mehitabel,  and  I,  who  love  him 

too. 


150  RE-ENLISTED. 

He  's  never  shirked  a  battle  yet,  though  frightful 
risks  he  's  run, 

Since  treason  flooded  Baltimore,  the  spring  of  Sixty- 
One  ; 

Through  blood  and  storm  he  's  held  out  firm,  nor 
fretted  once,  my  Sam, 

At  swamps  of  Chickahominy,  or  fields  of  Antietam. 

Though   many  a  time,  he  's   told   us,  when  he  saw 

them  lying  dead, 
The  boys  that  came  from  Newburyport,  and  Lynn, 

and  Marblehead, 
Stretched  out  upon  the  trampled  turf,  and  wept  on 

by  the  sky, 
It  seemed  to  him  the  Commonwealth  had  drained 

her  life-blood  dry. 

"  But   then,"    he    said,   "  the    more 's    the   need    the 

country  has  of  me : 
To  live  and  fight   the  war  all  through,  what   glory 

it  will  be  ! 
The  Rebel  balls  don't  hit  me  ;  and,  mother,  if  they 

should, 
You  '11  know  I  've  fallen  in  my  place,  where  I  have 

always  stood." 


RE-ENLISTED.  151 

He  's  taken  out  his  furlough,  and   short    enough    it 

seemed  : 
I  often  tell  Mehitabel  he  '11  think  he  only  dreamed 
Of  walking  with  her  nights  so  bright  you  could  n't 

see  a  star, 
And    hearing   the    swift    tide    come    in    across    the 

harbor  bar. 

The  Stars  that  shine  above  the  Stripes,  they  light 
him  southward  now  ; 

The  tide  of  war  has  swept  him  back  ;  he  's  made 
a  solemn  vow 

To  build  himself  no  home-nest  till  his  country's 
work  is  done  ; 

God  bless  the  vow,  and  speed  the  work,  my  pa- 
triot, my  son  ! 

And  yet  it  is  a  pretty  place  where  his  new  house 
might  be  ;  — 

An  orchard-road  that  leads  your  eye  straight  out 
upon  the  sea. 

The  boy  not  work  his  father's  farm  ?  it  seems  al- 
most a  shame  ; 

But  any  selfish  plan  for  him  he  'd  never  let  me 
name. 


152  RE-ENLISTED. 

He  's  re -enlisted  for  the  war,  for  victory  or  for 
death,  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  perhaps  !  —  the  thought  has  half- 
way stopped  my  breath, 

And  driven  a  cloud  across  the  sun ;  —  my  boy,  it 
will  not  be  ! 

The  war  will  soon  be  over ;  home  again  you  '11 
come  to  me  ! 

He  's  re-enlisted  :  and  I  smiled  to  see  him  going,  too  ! 
There  's  nothing  that  becomes  him  half  so  well  as 

army-blue. 
Only  a  private  in  the  ranks  !  but  sure  I  am  indeed, 
If  all  the  privates  were    like   him,  they  'd    scarcely 

captains  need. 

And  I  and  Massachusetts   share   the   honor  of  his 

birth,  — 
The  grand  old  State  !    to    me    the   best    in    all  the 

peopled  earth ! 
I  cannot  hold  a  musket,  but  I  have  a  son  who  can  ; 
And  I  'm  proud  for  Freedom's  sake  to  be  the  mother 

of  a  man  ! 


CANTICLE    DE    PROFUNDIS.  153 


CANTICLE   DE   PROFUNDIS. 

(^  LORY  to  Thee,  Father  of  all  the  Immortal, 

^-^^  Ever  belongs : 

We  bring  Thee  from  our  watch  by  the  grave's  portal 

Nothing  but  songs. 
Though  every  wave  of  trouble  has  gone  o'er  us,  — 

Though  in  the  fire 
We  have  lost  treasures  time  cannot  restore  us, — 

Though  all  desire 
That  made  life  beautiful  fades  out  in  sorrow ;  — 

Though  the  strange  path 
Winding  so  lonely  through  the  bleak  to-morrow, 

No  comfort  hath  ;  — 
Though  blackness  gathers  round  us  on  all  faces, 

And  we  can  see 
By  the  red  war-flash  but  Love's  empty  places  ;  — 

Glory  to  Thee ! 

For,  underneath  the  "crash  and  roar  of  battle, 
The  deafening  roll 
7* 


154  CANTICLE   DE   PROFUNDIS. 

That  calls  men  off  to  butchery  like  cattle, 

Soul  after  soul,  — 
Under  the  horrid  sound  of  chaos  seething 

In  blind,  hot  strife, 
We  feel  the  moving  of  Thy  Spirit,  breathing 

A  better  life 
Into  the  air  of  our  long-sickened  nation ; 

A  muffled  hymn  ;  — 
The  star-sung  prelude  of  a  new  creation ;  — 

Suffusions  dim,  — 
The  bursting  upward  of  a  stifled  glory, 

That  shall  arise 
To  light  new  pages  in  the  world's  great  story 

For  happier  eyes. 


If  upon  lips  too  close  to  dead  lips  leaning, 

Songs  be  not  found, 
Yet  wilt  Thou  know  our  life's  unuttered  meaning 

In  its  deep  ground, 
As  seeds  in  earth,  sleep  sorrow-drenched  praises, 

Waiting  to  bring 
Incense  to  Thee  along  thought's  barren  mazes 

When  Thou  send'st  spring. 


CANTICLE    DE    PROFUNDIS.  155 

Glory  to  Thee !  we  say,  with  shuddering  wonder, 

While  a  hushed  land 
Hears  the  stern  lesson  syllabled  in  thunder, 

That  Truth  is  grand 
As  life  must  be ;  that  neither  man  nor  nation 

May  soil  thy  throne 
With  a  soul's  life-blood  —  horrible  oblation  !  — 

Nor  quick  be  shown 
That  thou  wilt  not  be  mocked  by  prayer  whose  nurses 

Were  Hate  and  Wrong ; 
That  trees  so  vile  must  drop  back  fruit  in  curses 

Bitter  and  strong. 

Glory  to  Thee,  who  wilt  not  let  us  smother 

Ourselves  in  sin  ; 
Sending  Pain's  messengers  fast  on  each  other 

Us  thence  to  win  ! 
Praise  for  the  scourging  under  which  we  languish, 

So  torn,  so  sore ! 
And  save  us  strength,  if  yet  uncleansed  by  anguish, 

To  welcome  more. 
Life  were  not  life  to  us,  could  they  be  fables, — 

Justice  and  Right : 
Scathe  crime  with  lightning,  till  we  see  the  tables 

Of  Law  burn  bright ! 


I  $6  CANTICLE    DE   PROFUNDIS. 

Glory  to  Thee,  whose  glory  and  pleasure 

Must  be  in  good ! 
By  Thee  the  mysteries  we  cannot  measure 

Are  understood. 
With  the  abysses  of  Thyself  above  us,  — 

Our  sins  below, — 
That  Thou   dost  look  from   Thy  pure  heaven   and 
love  us, 

Enough  to  know. 
Enough  to  lay  our  praises  on  Thy  bosom  ; 

Praises  fresh-grown 
Out  of  our  depths,  dark  root  and  open  blossom, 

Up  to  thy  throne. 
When  choking  tears  make  our  Hosannas  falter, 

The  music  free ! 
O  keep  clear  voices  singing  at  Tlry  altar, 

Glory  to  Thee! 


TOLLING.  157 


TOLLING. 

[April  15,  1865.] 

'ROLLING,  tolling,  tolling! 
*■     All  the  bells  of  the  land ! 
Lo !  the  patriot  martyr 

Taketh  his  journey  grand ; 
Travels  into  the  ages, 

Bearing  a  hope  how  dear ! 
Into  life's  unknown  vistas, 

Liberty's  great  pioneer. 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling! 

Do  the  budded  violets  know 
The  pain  of  the  lingering  clangor 

Shaking  their  bloom  out  so  ? 
They  open  into  strange  sorrow, 

The  rain  of  a  nation's  tears ; 
Into  the  saddest  April 

Twined  with  the  New  World's  years. 


I58  TOLLING. 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling ! 

See,  they  come  as  a  cloud,— 
Hearts  of  a  mighty  people, 

Bearing  his  pall  and  shroud ! 
Lifting  up,  like  a  banner, 

Signals  of  loss  and  woe  ! 
Wonder  of  breathless  nations, 

Moveth  the  solemn  show. 

Tolling,  tolling,  tolling ! 

Was  it,  O  man  beloved, — 
Was  it  thy  funeral  only, 

Over  the  land  that  moved  ?  — 
Veiled  by  that  hour  of  anguish, 

Borne  with  the  Rebel  rout, 
Forth  into  utter  darkness, 

Slavery's  corse  went  out. 


THE    FLAG.  1 59 


THE   FLAG. 

[June  17,  1865.] 

T     ET  it  idly  droop,  or  sway 

— '  To  the  wind's  light  will ; 
Furl  its  stars,  or  float  in  day ; 

Flutter,  or  be  still ! 
It  has  held  its  colors  bright, 

Through  the  war-smoke  dun ; 
Spotless  emblem  of  the  Right, 

Whence  success  was  won. 

Let  it  droop  in  graceful  rest 

For  a  passing  hour,  — - 
Glory's  banner,  last  and  best ; 

Freedom's  freshest  flower ! 
Each  red  stripe  has  blazoned  forth 

Gospels  writ  in  blood  ; 
Every  star  has  sung  the  birth 

Of  some  deathless  good. 

Let  it  droop,  but  not  too  long ! 
On  the  eager  wind 


j5q  the  flag. 

Bid  it  wave,  to  shame  the  wrong, 

To  inspire  mankind 
With  a  larger  human  love; 

With  a  truth  as  true 
As  the  heaven  that  broods  above 

Its  deep  field  of  blue. 

In  the  gathering  hosts  of  hope, 

In  the  march  of  man, 
Open  for  it  place  and  scope, 

Bid  it  lead  the  van  ; 
Till  beneath  the  searching  skies, 

Martyr-blood  be  found, 
Purer  than  our  sacrifice, 

Crying  from  the  ground:  — 

Till  a  flag  with  some  new  light 

Out  of  Freedom's  sky, 
Kindles,  through  the  gulfs  of  night, 

Glory  yet  more  high. 
Let  its  glow  the  darkness  drown  ! 

Give  our  banner  sway; 
Till  its  joyful  stars  go  down, 

In  undreamed-of  day ! 


MISCELLANEOUS 


HAND   IN   HAND   WITH   ANGELS. 

TTAND  in  hand  with  angels, 
*  *-    Through  the  world  we  go ; 
Brighter  eyes  are  on  us 

Than  we  blind  ones  know; 
Tenderer  voices  cheer  us 

Than  we  deaf  will  own  ; 
Never,  walking  heavenward, 

Can  we  walk  alone. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels, 

In  the  busy  street, 
By  the  winter  hearth-fires, — 

Everywhere,  —  we  meet, 
Though  unfledged  and  songless, 

Birds  of  Paradise ; 
Heaven  looks  at  us  daily 

Out  of  human  eyes. 


I64        HAND  IN  HAND  WITH  ANGELS. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels ; 

Oft  in  menial  guise ; 
By  the  same  strait  pathway 

Prince  and  beggar  rise. 
If  we  drop  the  fingers, 

Toil-imbrowned  and  worn, 
Then  one  link  with  heaven 

From  our  life  is  torn. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels : 

Some  are  fallen,  —  alas  ! 
Soiled  wings  trail  pollution 

Over  all  they  pass. 
Lift  them  into  sunshine ! 

Bid  them  seek  the  sky ! 
Weaker  is  your  soaring, 

When  they  cease  to  fly. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels; 

Some  are  out  of  sight, 
Leading  us,  unknowing, 

Into  paths  of  light. 
Some  dear  hands  are  loosened 

From  our  earthly  clasp, 


HAND    IN    HAND    WITH    ANGELS.  1 65 

Soul  in  soul  to  hold  us 
With  a  firmer  grasp. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels, — 

'T  is  a  twisted  chain, 
Winding  heavenward,  earthward, 

Linking  joy  and  pain. 
There  's  a  mournful  jarring, 

There  's  a  clank  of  doubt, 
If  a  heart  grows  heavy, 

Or  a  hand  's  left  out. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels 

Walking  every  day  ;  — 
How  the  chain  may  lengthen, 

None  of  us  can  say. 
But  we  know  it  reaches 

From  earth's  lowliest  one, 
To  the  shining  seraph, 

Throned  beyond  the  sun. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels  ! 

Blessed  so  to  be ! 
Helped  are  all  the  helpers  ; 

Giving  light,  they  see. 


1 66  HAND    IN    HAND    WITH   ANGELS. 

He  who  aids  another 

Strengthens  more  than  one ; 

Sinking  earth  he  grapples 
To  the  Great  White  Throne. 


EUREKA.  1 67 


EUREKA. 

RAN  through  a  garden  of  roses  at  morning, 
Uncaring  the  whither  or  why, 
When,  sudden  as  light,  came  a  musical  warning-, 

Thrilling  over  my  heart  like  a  sigh. 
"  Seek !   seek !  "  one    low  word,  and   there   followed 
no  other : — 
I  gathered  a  white  lily-bell ; 
A  doveling  I  caught,  newly  left  by  its  mother; 

I  stooped  for  a  pebble,  a  shell. 
But  just  as  a  joyous  "Eureka!"  replied, 
My  dove  flew  away,  and  my  white  lily  died  ; 
My  pebble  and  shell  lost  the  light  of  the  wave, 
And  "I  have  not  found,"  was  the  answer  I  gave. 

Then  outward  I  sally,  a  fearless  crusader, 
With  "Seek"  for  a  herald  and  guide. 

On  Error's  dominions  I  march,  an  invader; 
Green  laurels  the  promise  of  Pride. 


1 68  EUREKA. 

Impatient  Goliath  is  striding  to  battle  ; 

My  foes  are  but  pygmies  to-day ; 
"  Eureka  !  "  I  shout,  while  the  war-thunders  rattle,  — 

The  victor  rides  forth  from  the  fray. 
"Eureka!"  why  falters  my  tongue  at  the  word? 
Chimsera  yields  not  to  a  mortal's  dull  sword. 
Lo,  giants  arise  from  the  blood  of  the  slain ! 
Alike  were  the  search  and  the  struggle  in  vain. 

Now  bring  my  good  staff,  for  the  pilgrim  sees  yonder 

A  Mecca,  an  altar  of  rest. 
Beside  that  calm  shrine  I  will  seat  me  and  ponder, 

And  be  in  my  solitude  blest. 
There  Peace  shall  bend  over  me,  Peace,  the  white  angel 

And  Love,  with  her  warm  brooding  wings. 
Eureka!  I  hear  it — a  soothing  evangel  — 

'Tis  gentle  Reflection  that  sings. 
Still  cheated  !  Ixion  still  grasps  at  a  cloud. 
The  white  robe  of  Peace,  —  it  is  only  a  shroud  ! 
My  Mecca  I  leave  ;  all  in  vain  have  I  sought 
The  garden,  the  battle,  the  shrine  ;  —  they  are  naught 

Now  pausing,  a  wanderer  restless  yet  weary, 
"  Seek  !    seek  !  "  how  it  sounds,  like  a  moan  ! 


EUREKA.  169 

Ah,  where  ?  for  around  all  is  barren  and  dreary ; 

Beyond  lies  the  dread,  the  unknown. 
And  upward  —  O,  joy!  what  a  glory  is  breaking! 

Why  looked  I  not  upward  before  ? 
My  soul  like  a  planet  in  sunlight  is  waking, 

To  suffer  eclipse  nevermore. 
Eureka !  all  dazzled  with  splendor  I  stand  ; 
Light  upward  and  inward,  a  Father  at  hand, 
A  crown  overhead  that  erelong  I  shall  win ;  — 
Eureka !  the  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  ! 


I70  PSYCHE   AT   SCHOOL. 


PSYCHE  AT  SCHOOL. 

"\7'OUNG  Psyche  came  to  school, 

Down  here  in  Being's  lower  vestibule, 
Where  many  voices  unto  her  did  call 
"  Welcome !  be  studious !  and  in  Mammon's  hall 
Shalt  thou  cup-bearer  be  to  Mammon-King." 

Thought  Psyche,  "No  such  thing!" 

A  volume  Pleasure  brought, 
Of  glowing  pictures  in  earth-colors  wrought. 
Temptation's  alphabet  in  ambush  lay 
Among  the  leaves ;  but  Psyche  turned  away, 
And  said,  "Those  tints  are  mixed  with  poisonous  paint ; 

It  makes  me  sick  and  faint." 

Then  one  approached,  called  Love, 
Whose  fingers  o'er  illumined  print  did  move. 
Psyche  looked  on  and  sighed :  "  The  page  is  vext ; 
Your  notes  and  your  translations  mar  the  text. 


PSYCHE   AT    SCHOOL.  171 

The  angels  write  Love's  idioms  on  the  heart; 
They  are  not  learned  by  art." 

Pride  took  an  ancient  book, 
To  teach  the  high-bred  air,  the  scornful  look. 
Psyche  returned  her  gaze  with  meek  surprise, 
And  said,  "  Mine  are  not  glass,  but  real  eyes, 
And  will  not  stare  like  dead  men's;  since  I  see, 

I  cannot  learn  of  thee." 


"The  child  rebels,"  said  Pride, 
"Now  be  the  lash  by  some  rough  teacher  plied/' 
Then  Poverty  her  rudest  blows  did  give ; 
Said  Psyche,  "  Pain  assures  me  that  I  live. 
"  My  robes  are  torn  ;  but  courage,  faith,  and  love, 

My  triple  mail,  I  prove." 

Grief  brought  a  scroll,  writ  o'er 
With  ink  of  nightshade  and  of  hellebore. 
Its  damps  were  rainbows  under  Psyche's  smile. 
Despair  with  black  tome  open  stood  the  while, 
But  said,  "  Her  eyes  would  make  the  page  too  bright," 

And  stole  away  from  sight. 


172  PSYCHE    AT    SCHOOL. 

A  guest  undid  the  gate ; 
One  who  expects  no  welcome,  soon  or  late. 
Then  Psyche  took  the  parchment  that  he  bore, 
And  whispered,  gliding  by  him  through  the  door, 
"  Kind  Death,  best  friend !  't  is  my  diploma  given ; 

A  graduate  for  heaven." 


GODSENDS.  173 


GODSENDS. 

"VTOT  the  windfall  makes  us  rich, 

•         But  the  slowly  ripened  fruit, 
Full  of  sun-warmed  nectar,  which 
Drops,  a  patient  need  to  suit. 

Mean  is  every  bauble  brought, 

Favor  of  the  mean  to  buy. 
Offer  us  no  gift  unfraught 

With  the  largeness  of  the  sky. 

Offer  but  the  breadth  of  love  ; 

Narrower  boon  is  none  at  all. 
Search  for  us  the  deeps  above  ; 

Not  the  soil  where  earth-worms  crawl. 

Give  the  glory  of  a  flower  ; 

Radiant  leaf-bough  ;    blooming  thorn  ; 
Light  that  seas  and  mountains  shower  ; 

Rosy  cheer  of  days  new-born. 


1^4  GODSENDS. 

God  sends  what  the  true  heart  brings: 

Stranger  or  familiar  hand, 
Priest  among  His  holy  things, 

Only  bears  the  gift  He  planned. 

And  the  best  of  all  He  sends 
Is  no  measured  dole,  but  love; 

Is  not  cumbering  goods,  but  friends; 
Winged  souls  with  ours  to  move. 

Soon  we  tire  of  pleasure's  toy  ; 

Flashes  o'er  us,  while  we  grope, 
Glory  of  remoter  joy  ; 

Beckoning  of  a  larger  hope  : 

Far  as  dreams,  yet  close  at  hand  ; 

Worlds  unveiled  in  one  soul's  bound, 
Riches  of  the  sun-vaults  grand 

At  your  threshold  may  be  found. 

Learn  the  fools'  gold  to  despise  ; 

Coinage  of  heaven's  mint  to  know 
In  the  home-illuming  eyes  ; 

In  the  fireside's  quiet  glow  ; 


GODSENDS.  175 

In  the  roof-tree's  timid  bud  ; 

Hues  that  near  horizons  wear  ; 
Planets  your  own  sky  that  stud  ; 

Your  own  window's  breath  of  air. 

Naught  but  light  from  loftiest  star ; 

Naught  than  life  more  rare  or  new. 
All  the  real  Godsends  are 

Common  as  the  daily  dew. 


176  THIRTY-FIVE. 


THIRTY-FIVE, 


'  I  ^HE  sun  hangs  calm  at  summer's  poise ; 

The  earth  lies  bathed  in  shimmering  noon, 
At  rest  from  all  her  cheerful  noise, 
With  heartstrings  silently  in  tune. 


The  time,  how  beautiful  and  dear, 
When  early  fruits  begin  to  blush, 

And  the  full  leafage  of  the  year 

Sways  o'er  them  with  a  sheltering  hush  \ 

The  clouds  that  fleck  the  warm,  blue  deep 
Like  shoals  of  tinted  fishes  float  ; 

From  breathless  groves  the  birds  asleep 
Send  now  and  then  a  dreaming  note. 

A  traveller  through  the  noonday  calm, 
Not  weary,  yet  in  love  with  rest, 

Glad  of  the  air's  refreshing  balm, 

Stays  where  yon  threshold  waits  a  guest. 


THiRTY-FIVE.  I'JJ 

Her  half-way  house  of  life  is  this  : 
She  sees  the  road  wind  up  from  far; 

From  the  soft  dells  of  childhood's  bliss, 
Where  twinkles  home's  remembered  star. 

She  feels  that  glimmer,  out  of  sight, — 

A  tender  radiance  of  the  past, 
That  drowned  itself  in  deeper  light ; 

A  joy  that  Joy  forbade  to  last. 

O  morn  of  Spring  !   O  green,  green  fields ! 

Pressed  by  white  feet  of  innocence  ! 
The  lilies  that  young  verdure  shields 

Yet  send  a  pure,  faint  sweetness  thence. 

Those  lilies  yet  perfume  her  heart ; 

That  morning  lingers  in  her  eye : 
From  God's  first  gifts  she  will  not  part, — 

Half  the  sweet  light  she  travels  by. 

Yet  think  not  she  would  wander  back 
For  childhood  pure  or  merrier  youth. 

A  mist  is  on  the  fading  track, 

Here  rounds  the  brightening  orb  of  truth. 
8*  L 


I  ?8  THIRTY-FIVE. 

Nor  painless  can  she  look  behind, 
On  pitfalls  that  she  did  not  shun  ; 

Sure  paths  her  heart  refused  to  find ; 
And  guides  that  led  her  from  the  sun. 

Then  good  seemed  false,  and  evil  true; 

Now  out  of  evil  blossoms  good  ; 
Life  maps  into  a  broader  view, 

Its  needed  shadows  understood. 

Here  at  the  half-way  house  of  life, 
Upon  these  summer  highlands  raised, 

Her  thoughts  are  quieted  from  strife, 
Peace  grows  wherever  she  has  gazed. 

The  spirit  of  the  beauteous  Now 

She  deeply  quaffs,  for  future  strength, 

And  forward  leans  her  shaded  brow 
To  scan  the  journey's  waiting  length. 

Not  down-hill  all  the  afternoon  ; 

Though  hides  the  path  in  many  a  vale, 
It  upward  winds  to  sunset  soon  ; 

To  mountain  summits  far  and  pale. 


THIRTY-FIVE.  1 79 

Though  lone  those  mountains  seem,  and  cold, 

To  such  as  know  not  of  her  Guide, 
He  gently  leads  to  Love's  warm  fold  ; 

She  sees  them  from  their  heaven-lit  side. 

And  of  the  way  that  lies  between, 

The  mystery  is  the  loveliest  thing. 
All  yet  a  miracle  has  been, 

And  life  shall  greater  wonders  bring. 

The  soul  to  God's  heart  moving  on, 

Owns  but  the  Infinite  for  home  ; 
Whatever  with  the  past  has  gone, 

The  best  is  always  yet  to  come. 

'T  will  not  be  growing  old,  to  feel 

The  spirit,  like  a  child,  led  on 
By  unseen  presences,  that  steal 

For  earth  the  light  of  heavenly  dawn. 

'T  will  not  be  terrible  to  bear 

Of  inward  pain  the  heaviest  blow, 
Since  thus  the  rock  is  smitten,  where 

Fountains  of  strength  perennial  flow. 


180  THIRTY-FIVE. 

To  wait  —  to  suffer  —  or  to  do  ; 

Each  key  unlocks  its  own  deep  bliss; 
For  every  grief  a  comfort  new  ;  — 

A  mine  for  gems  the  heart  may  miss. 

Thus  on  she  looks,  with  thoughts  that  sing 
Of  happy  months  that  follow  June  : 

Life  were  not  a  completed  thing, 
Without  its  summer  afternoon  ; 

Without  its  summery  autumn  hours ;  — 

That  softened,  spiritual  time, 
When  o'er  bright  woods  and  frost-born  flowers 

The  seasons  ring  their  perfect  chime. 

The  time  to  bless  and  to  be  blest ; 

For  gathering  and  bestowing  fruit ; 
When  grapes  are  waiting  to  be  pressed, 

And  storms  have  fixed  the  tree's  firm  root. 

Heaven's  inmost  sunshine  earth  has  warmed  ; 

Heaven's  peace  floods  each  dark  mystery  ; 
And  all  the  present  glows,  transformed, 

In  the  fair  light  of  what  shall  be. 


THIRTY-FIVE.  l8l 

The  traveller  girds  her  to  depart ; 

She  turns  her  toward  the  setting  sun : 
With  morning's  freshness  in  her  heart, 

Her  evening  journey  is  begun. 


1 82  SLEEP-SONG. 


SLEEP-SONG. 

T   T  USH  the  homeless  baby's  crying, 
A    Tender  Sleep ! 
Every  folded  violet 
May  the  outer  storm  forget. 
Those  wet  lids  with  kisses  drying, 
Through  them  creep. 

Soothe  the  soul  that  lies  thought-weary, 
Murmurous  Sleep ; 
Like  a  hidden  brooklet's  song, 
Rippling  gorgeous  woods  among, 
Tinkling  down  the  mountains  dreary, 
White  and  steep. 

Breathe  thy  balm  upon  the  lonely, 
Gentle  Sleep ; 
As  the  twilight  breezes  bless 
With  sweet  scents  the  wilderness  : 
Ah,  let  warm,  white  dove-wings  only 
Round  them  sweep  ! 


SLEEP-SONG.  183 

O'er  the  aged  pour  thy  blessing, 
Holy  Sleep  ; 
Like  a  soft  and  ripening  rain, 
Falling  on  the  yellow  grain  : 
For  the  glare  of  suns  oppressing, 
Pitying  weep ! 

On  thy  still  seas  met  together, 
Charmed  Sleep  ; 
Hear  them  swell  a  drowsy  hymning, 
Swans  to  silvery  music  swimming, 
Floating  with  unruffled  feather 
O'er  the  deep. 


I84  SO   LITTLE, 


SO  LITTLE. 

"  I  *  IS  little  we  can  look  for  now; 

"*-     The  summer  years  are  past ; 
The  air  is  thick  with  coming  snow, 

And  dead  leaves,  falling  fast. 
A  lonelier  sound  is  in  the  wind, 
For  withered  roses  left  behind. 

There  was  an  Indian  summer,  sweet 
With  blossoms,  faint  and  few, 

When  fruits  lay  ripened  at  our  feet; 
But  that  has  faded,  too. 

Its  joy  was  but  the  after-glow 

Of  sunsets  crimsoned  long  ago. 

And  yet  we  never  plucked  the  flowers 
That  budded  in  our  dreams : 

Even  at  the  best,  this  world  of  ours 
Is  other  than  it  seems. 

A  generous  world  indeed  it  is, — 

Most  generous  in  its  promises, 


SO   LITTLE.  185 

And  with  a  golden  promise  still, 

It  lures  us  travellers  on 
To  death's  white  steep,  the  wintry  hill 

Up  which  our  friends  have  gone, 
And  vanished  from  our  mortal  sight, — 
Thank  God  !  into  no  starless  night. 

Faint  music  from  beyond  that  steep ;  — 

A  rose-breath,  far  and  rare :  — 
So  little  can  we  guess  !  —  but  deep 

Heart's  faith  is  rooted  there. 
So  little,  —  and  yet  so  much  more 
Than  we  have  hoped  or  dreamed  before ! 


1 86  THREE   OLD   SAWS. 


THREE  OLD   SAWS. 

T  F  the  world  seems  cold  to  you, 

Kindle  fires  to  warm  it ! 
Let  their  comfort  hide  from  view 

Winters  that  deform  it. 
Hearts  as  frozen  as  your  own 

To  that  radiance  gather. 
You  will  soon  forget  to  moan 

"  Ah  I  the  cheerless  weather  ! " 


If  the  world  's  a  wilderness, 

Go,  build  houses  in  it ! 
Will  it  help  your  loneliness 

On  the  winds  to  din  it? 
Raise  a  hut,  however  slight; 

Weeds  and  brambles  smother; 
And  to  roof  and  meal  invite 

Some  forlorner  brother. 


THREE   OLD    SAWS.  1 87 

If  the  world  's  a  vale  of  tears, 

Smile,  till  rainbows  span  it ! 
Breathe  the  love  that  life  endears, 

Clear  of  clouds  to  fan  it. 
Of  your  gladness  lend  a  gleam 

Unto  souls  that  shiver; 
Show  them  how  dark  Sorrow's  stream 

Blends  with  Hope's  bright  river. 


l88  A    WORD    WITH    MY   SOUL. 


A  WORD  WITH  MY  SOUL. 


QOUL,  what  wisdom  hast  thou  won, 
^^   Since  thine  earth-house  was  begun, 

From  loss  of  precious  things, 

And  fair  refurnishings  ? 
Of  all  the  guests  that  came  and  went, 
Leaving  their  calm  or  discontent  ? 

From  crumblings  of  decay,  — 

New  openings  unto  day  ? 


Wouldst  thou,  soul,  escape  thy  Past? 
Life's  foundation  holds  it  fast. 

The  purity,  the  sin, 

Alike  are  grounded  in : 
Therefrom  doth  lovely  leafage  spring ; 
Thence  creepeth  mould  and  tottering. 

Whatso  lies  stifled  there 

Bring  boldly  to  the  air. 


A    WORD    WITH    MY   SOUL.  1 89 

Soul,  no  Past  can  shelter  thee : 
Pleasant  though  its  rooms  may  be, 

Opening  unto  earth, 

Filled  with  bloom  and  mirth, 
To-day  thou  dost  in  vain  return 
To  kindle  fires  that  will  not  burn  : 

As  vainly  shut  its  doors, 

Or  veil  its  haunted  floors. 

Soul,  thou  hast  arisen  now 
To  the  Present's  sunnier  glow : 

Thy  windows  are  flung  wide 

To  light,  on  every  side : 
Beloved  comrades  gather  here, 
For  work,  and  company,  and  cheer. 

Look  in  or  out,  and  own 

How  fair  thy  world  has  grown. 

Sayest  thou,  Soul,  "  Here  will  I  live  ; 
Peace  enjoy,  and  blessings  give  "  ? 

Tarriers  of  a  day, 

Dear  guests  will  not  stay : 
Wild  winter  comes  :  thy  vines  are  bare : 
Storm-beaten  walls  need  large  repair : 


I9O  A    WORD   WITH    MY    SOUL. 

Night  curtains  thy  glad  room  ; 
Shrouds  thee  in  lonely  gloom. 

Build  up,  Soul,  a  lofty  stair ; 
Build  a  room  in  healthier  air. 

Here  there  is  no  rest : 

Better  climbs  to  best. 
Thy  friends  shall  be  the  eternal  stars; 
They  greet  thee  through  thy  casement  bars 

Thy  homesick  feet  they  lead 

Where  thou  no  house  wilt  need. 

Learn  thou,  Soul  of  mine,  past  doubt, 
Thou  canst  all  things  do  without : 

All  that  through  thy  Past 

Winds  and  clings  so  fast : 
Sweet  pictures  hidden  with  a  sigh, 
As  far  too  perfect  to  put  by  ; 

And  all  the  wealth  of  thought 

Into  thy  Present  wrought. 

From  that  height,  Soul,  thou  shalt  see, 
In  thy  sky-tower,  pluming  thee 


A    WORD    WITH    MY    SOUL.  I9I 

For  unfettered  flight 

Through  the  fields  of  light, 
The  beauty  of  thine  earthly  nest, 
As  never,  while  it  gave  thee  rest : 

Yea,  in  thyself  shalt  find 

Joy  that  seemed  left  behind. 


192  THE   WEEPING   PROPHET. 


THE   WEEPING   PROPHET.4 

IT  TOE,  woe  is  me  for  my  dear  country's  sin! 

Woe,  that  a  prophet's  torch  was  given  to  me 
To  hold  up,  hid  God's  shadowing  light  within, 

Before  a  people  who  refuse  to  see 
How  guilt  draws  down  that  light  in  burning  levin ; 
How  awful  is  the  purity  of  heaven. 

A  boy  among  the  hills  of  Anathoth 

I  saw  the  visionary  caldron  seethe, 
The  almond-tree  its  ominous  blossoms  wreathe, 

In  token  that  a  righteous  God  was  wroth 
With  Israel,  and  in  judgment  would  condemn 
The  city  of  His  love,  Jerusalem. 

To  be  his  messenger  of  wrath  I  shrank  : 
I  cried,  "  O  Lord,  I  am  a  child,  so  weak  ! 

Who  bears  a  curse,  none  give  God-speed,  or  thank." 
Then  did  He  touch  my  lips,  His  words  I  speak ; 

And,  knowing  that  His  eyes  are  on  the  truth, 

I  cannot  answer  evil  ways  with  ruth. 


THE    WEEPING    PROPHET.  193 

Therefore  I  sit  a  mourner,  and  mine  eyes 

Pour  day  and  night  their  heavy  sorrows  down. 

My  people  pass  me  by,  for  they  despise 

His  goodness,  and  with  scoffs  His  warnings  drown. 

While  o'er  my  head,  in  cloudy  columns  low, 

The  birds  of  prey  that  scent  their  ruin  go. 

Was  ever  any  sorrow  like  to  mine  ? 

It  is  no  selfish  trouble  that  I  weep, 
O  daughter  of  my  people,  but  I  keep 

Vigil  for  thee,  beneath  the  wrath  divine, 
The  love  that  reddens  into  justice,  when 
God's  perfect  law  is  made  the  mock  of  men. 

For,  evermore,  the  tables  of  that  law, 

Broken  by  man,  are  back  upon  him  hurled. 

O  virgin  daughter,  thee  defiled  I  saw, 

Wandering  from  Him,  an  outcast  in  the  world, 

Filthy  without,  and  vile  and  crushed  within  ; 

A  by-word  through  the  ages  for  thy  sin. 

Alike  in  visions  of  the  day  and  night, 
A  spectral  presence,  not  to  be  shut  out, 

A  bleeding  shadow,  chased  by  shame  and  doubt, 
Hither  and  thither  past  me  takes  its  flight 


194  THE    WEEPING    PROPHET. 

Into  the  unsheltering  dark  of  east  and  west :  — 
A  phantom,  yet  in  faded  splendors  drest. 

For  thou  wert  beautiful,  Jerusalem  ! 

Celestial  colors  wrapped  thee  at  thy  birth  ; 
Kings  pressed  from  far  to  kiss  thy  garment's  hem, 

Chosen  of  God,  a  glory  in  the  earth  ! 
Falling  from  such  a  height  to  such  a  deep, — 
To  be  the  prophet  of  thy  doom  I  weep  ! 


NATURE    AND    THE    BOOK. 


195 


NATURE   AND   THE   BOOK. 

r  HEARD  one  say  but  now :    "  Shut  up  the  Book  ; 
For  Nature  tells  the  story  better  still. 
The  fingered  pages  have  a  musty  look  ; 

The  wide  green  margins  of  the  mountain  rill, 
The  running  notes  of  ripples  on  the  beach, 

The  open  scroll  of  the  blue  firmament, 
In  loftier  language  the  same  lesson  teach. 

Will  not  the  broader  truth  thy  mind  content  ? 
The  cover  of  thy  book  may  be  a  door 

To  shut  the  elder  gospel  out  of  sight. 
It  tells  thee  only  that  which  was  before  ; 

God  said,  ere  it  was  writ,  '  Let  there  be  light ! ' 
And  light  is  everywhere,  —  around,  within  ; 

Earth  luminous  with  heaven  :  what  more  wilt  ask  ? 
The  Eternal  Effluence  is  thy  next  of  kin  : 

Lay  clogs  aside,  and  in  full  freedom  bask." 

The  Book  lay  open  on  the  window-sill, 

And  morning-glories  leaned  across  the  leaf 


I96  NATURE  AND  THE  BOOK. 

Whereon  is  written  "  Whosoever  will "  ; 

Also  that  story  which  hath  lightened  grief, 
And  dried  within  its  source  the  mourner's  tear; 

The  story  of  a  City  built  of  light 
Transmitted  through  all  precious  lustres  clear, 

Within  whose  gem-walled  streets  shall  be  no  night ! 

The  morning-glories  let  the  sunrise  through, 

Shedding  a  various  glow  upon  the  Word  : 
With  sumptuous  lines  of  purple,  red,  and  blue, 

Familiar  promises  were  underscored. 
I  read  and  mused  until  my  heart  spoke  out : 

"  Nature  saith  '  Is/  but  addeth  not  '  Shall  be,' 
Which  God  hath  written  here  past  any  doubt  ; 

The  words  that  human  eyes  ached  long  to  see. 
We  might  have  guessed  it.     Some,  the  saintly-strong 

And  clear  of  insight,  know  that  unto  life, 
Which  is  of  Him,  His  endless  years  belong, 

And  are  at  rest  from  inward  questioning  strife. 

"But  few  live  on  the  mountain-peaks  of  thought, 
And  fewer  still  keep  holy  instinct  pure  : 

To  sin,  as  unto  weakness,  hath  He  brought 

This  lamp,  to  make  the  homeward  pathway  sure. 


NATURE    AND    THE    BOOK.  1 97 

Shall  we  blow  out  our  torch,  because  the  sun 
Shone  yesterday,  and  will  to-morrow  shine? 

Too  much  of  work  remaineth  to  be  done, 
And  every  gleam  we  toil  by  is  divine. 

'•'Wherefore  should  He  permit  these  flowers  to  bloom, 

That  rays  from  earth's  great  luminary  break  ? 
Because  to  us  its  dazzling  blaze  were  gloom : 

Of  ravelled  rainbows  beauty's  web  we  make. 
Jewel  and  blossom,  shaded  leaf  and  star 

Give  no  full  revelation  of  the  light. 
Colors  but  letters  of  an  alphabet  are, 

Pointing  us  backward  to  the  primitive  white. 
The  common  eye  needs  every  tint  and  tone  ; 

The  soul  of  man,  much  more,  God's  faintest  word. 
His  glory  through  our  mortal  thought  hath  shone  ; 

When  saint  or  prophet  speaks,  He  still  is  heard : 
And  in  the  Revelation  of  the  Book, — 

For  surely  He  most  brother-like  hath  come, — 
As  in  a  mirror  on  His  face  we  look, 

So  reassured,  when  Nature  seemeth  dumb. 

"Yet  will  I  listen  to  the  ancient  Voice, 

Forever  new,  that  speaks  in  wind  and  wave  ; 


I98  NATURE  AND  THE  BOOK. 

It  is  the  self-same  tale  ;  let  me  rejoice 

In  joy  that  His  bewildered  children  have. 
For  they  are  glad  in  Him,  the  God  Unknown: 

O  that  they  knew  the  sacred  emphasis 
The  Word  on  Nature's  loveliness  has  thrown, 

And  how  the  world  by  Christ's  face  lighted  is, — 
As  if  new  sunshine  brake  into  the  air,  — 

As  if  fresh  odors  burst  from  everything ! 
This  Book  is  a  wide  window,  opening  fair 

Into  the  splendors  of  immortal  Spring. 
Nor  shall  it  now  be  shut  again  on  earth 

Until  that  City,  that  dear  Bride,  descends, 
All  souls  resound  the  heavenly  marriage-mirth, 

And  all  the  blindness  sin  has  brought  us  ends." 


SABBATH    DAYS.  1 99 


SABBATH   DAYS. 

HPHE  dear  old  Sabbath  days, 

The  quiet  Sabbath  days  of  long  ago  ! 

Across  these  shadeless  ways 
The  upstart  mornings  boldly  come  and  go. 

None  lingers  on  our  gaze, — 
No  Sabbath  now  will  shine  upon  us  so. 

Those  gentle  days  are  gone, 
At  our  unworthy  doors  their  dust  off-shaken. 

No  more  that  noiseless  dawn, 
For  which  no  other  dawn  could  be  mistaken,  — 

The  reverent  night  withdrawn, — 
Looks  at  us  with  calm  eyes,  till  we  awaken. 

If  any  straggler  walked 
Through  the  hushed  town,  he  met  a  spirit  there, 

That  with  his  conscience  talked 
In  low  upbraidings,  murmured  through  the  air. 

The  very  wild  birds  flocked 
To  the  safe  shelter  of  the  house  of  prayer. 


200  SABBATH    DAYS. 

The  little  ones,  who  went 
By  twos,  in  larger  footprints,  up  the  lane, 

Paused  as  the  shepherd  bent 
Crossed  the  worn  threshold,  leaning  on  his  cane  : 

While  the  rich  orchard-scent 
Passed  in  and  mingled  Avith  the  psalm's  clear  strain. 

The  sun,  slow  moving  round, 
Looked  from  the  bending  heavens  approval  sweet. 

There  was  no  jarring  sound  ; 
The  hours  took  off  the  sandals  from  their  feet, 

For  earth  seemed  holy  ground, — 
A  temple  where  the  soul  her  God  could  meet. 

But  now  the  Sabbath  sun 
Shines  quick  and  keen,  as  in  the  hurrying  week ; 

And  earthly  noises  stun 
The  spirit  that  would  heaven  in  silence  seek. 

The  praise  for  hire  is  done, 
While   their   own    thoughts    the    people    think    and 
speak. 

'T  is  true  that  every  hour 
Is  sacred  to  the  earnest  worshipper, 


SABBATH    DAYS.  201 

And  every  humble  flower 
Is  Nature's  text,  to  those  who  wait  on  her : 

But  those  old  days  had  power 
The  sluggish  soul's  Bethesda-pool  to  stir. 

The  Sabbath  day  !   how  well 
The  Pilgrims  loved  it,  for  the  peace  it  brought ! 

We  in  the  shadow  dwell 
Of  its  pavilion,  for  our  shelter  wrought. 

Why  break  our  holiest  spell  ? 
Why  count  the  good  old  Sabbath  days  for  naught  ? 


202  A    WHITE    SUNDAY. 


A   WHITE   SUNDAY. 

T  ENTERED  not  the  church  this  good  Lord's  Day, 

Albeit  my  heart  was  with  the  worshippers, 
Who  stood  beneath  the  arched  and  frescoed  roof, 
And  sang  to  Him  arisen.     The  same  song 
I  heard  innumerable  happy  birds 
Trilling  outside  my  window,  in  the  boughs, 
Among  the  blossoms  ;  —  and  the  blossoms  sang,  — 
I  dreamed  it  not,  — "  The  Lord  is  risen  indeed." 
Surely  there  never  fell  so  pure  a  light 
From  any  crystalline  cathedral-dome, 
As  that  borne  down  with  the  soft  summer  rain 
Through  the  pink  apple-blooms,  the  lucid  green 
Of  June's  uncankered  leaves,  and  branches  gray, 
Scutcheoned  with  lichens,  tracery  more  antique 
Than  earls  or  bishops  bear  upon  their  shields. 

A  color  not  of  earth,  a  tenderness 
Of  spotless  snow  and  rose-bloom,  clothed  the  tree, 
That  stood  up  underneath  the  heavens,  one  flower. 


A    WHITE    SUNDAY.  2C>3 

The  multitude  that  John  saw  in  white  robes, 
Singing  the  Heart  Divine  whose  living  drops 
Had  cleansed  their  stains,  and  warmed  them  into  life,  — 
That  multitude  looked  through  my  window-panes, 
And  with  them  I  joined  praises. 

Friends  devout, 
Who  listen  to  the  sermon,  swell  the  hymn, 
Also  the  Lord  accepts  my  offering. 
To-day  I  worship  in  the  apple-boughs, 
With  the  great  congregation  of  the  flowers 
That  come  up  to  their  heights,  as  came  the  tribes 
Of  old  unto  Mount  Zion,  once  a  year ; 
A  Passover  of  perfect,  open  praise. 

The  world  we  live  in  wholly  is  redeemed ; 
Not  man  alone,  but  all  that  man  holds  dear: 
His  orchards  and  his  maize  ;  forget-me-not 
And  heart's-ease  in  his  garden ;  and  the  wild 
Aerial  blossoms  of  the  untamed  wood, 
That  make  its  savagery  so  home-like ;  all 
Have  felt  Christ's  sweet  love  watering  their  roots : 
His  sacrifice  has  won  both  earth  and  heaven. 

Nature,  in  all  its  fulness,  is  the  Lord's. 
There  are  no  Gentile  oaks,  no  Pagan  pines ; 


204  A    WHITE    SUNDAY. 

The  grass  beneath  our  feet  is  Christian  grass  ; 

The  wayside  weed  is  sacred  unto  Him. 

Have  we  not  groaned  together,  herbs  and  men, 

Struggling  through  stifling  earth-weights  unto  light, 

Earnestly  longing  to  be  clothed  upon 

With  our  high  possibility  of  bloom  ? 

And  He,  He  is  the  Light,  He  is  the  Sun 

That  draws  us  out  of  darkness,  and  transmutes 

The  noisome  earth-damp  into  heaven's  own  breath, 

And  shapes  our  matted  roots,  we  know  not  how, 

Into  fresh  leaves  and  strong,  fruit-bearing  stems  ; 

Yea,  makes  us  stand,  on  some  consummate  day, 

Abloom  in  white  transfiguration-robes. 

We  are  but  human  plants,  with  power  to  shut 
In  upon  self  our  own  impoverished  lives, 
Refusing  light  and  growth.     Unthankfully 
We  flaunt  our  blossoms  in  the  face  of  heaven, 
As  if  they  overshone  the  eternal  Sun 
That  is  their  inspiration ;  as  if  we 
Sat  in  ourselves,  and  decked  ourselves  with  flowers  ;  — 
An  infinite  littleness  of  vanity. 

My  apple-tree,  thou  preachest  better  things ; 
Whispering  from  all  thy  multitudinous  buds, 


A    WHITE    SUNDAY.  205 

"To  bloom  is  boundless  freedom.     It  is  life 

From  self  enfranchised,  opening  every  vein 

To  let  in  glory  from  above,  and  give 

What  we  receive,  in  fragrance,  color,  fruit ; 

Life,  which  is  heaven's :  ourselves  dead  matter,  else." 

Some  good  men  say,  "We  need  theology." 
Others,  "Not  so,  religion  is  enough." 
What  if  both  are  mistaken,  —  and  both  right  ? 
God  is  our  need,  a  Presence  and  a  Life. 

Theology  enthrones  him  in  the  mind, 
Yet  sometimes  leaves  the  heart  as  hard  as  stone, 
The  hands  as  lifeless.     And  Religion,  too, 
Is  often  only  an  ambiguous  word 
For  transient  fervor,  or  for  duty  cold, 
Or  vain,  self-helpful  works  of  charity. 

Without  Him  thought  is  soulless  ;  rapture  blind ; 
Duty  a  lifelong  bondage ;  love,  thin  air. 
Through  Him  alone  is  man  a  living  soul : 
Through  Him  alone  is  earth  the  bride  of  heaven. 

Here  in  Thy  great  world-garden,  Lord,  we  stand : 
And  Thou,  whose  trees  we  are,  who  art  our  sun, 
Hast  once  descended  to  our  roots  of  being, 


206  A    WHITE    SUNDAY. 

And  bloomed  and  breathed  in  our  humanity, 
That  we  might  be  as  Thou,  and  know  no  death. 
The  life  we  live  is  Thine,  not  ours.     We  bloom 
To  gladden  earth  with  sacrifice  like  Thine, 
So  clad  in  Thy  white  robes  of  righteousness. 

Keep  us !  for  here  the  blossoms  blight  so  fast ! 
The  fruit  is  flawed  in  turning  from  Thy  beams 
To  the  biting  east,  to  folly  and  to  sin. 
And  let  all  trees,  the  wildings  of  the  wood, 
And  grafts  of  rarest  culture,  waft  Thee  praise. 

My  apple-tree,  thy  dome  of  rose  and  pearl 
Will  vanish  on  the  morrow,  like  a  dream. 
Yet  every  spring,  the  springs  when  I  am  dead, 
A  tabernacle  thou  wilt  build  for  men  ; 
And  they  will  look  up  through  thee  into  heaven, 
And  hear  the  hum  of  bees  among  thy  boughs, 
A  faint  sky-music.     I  shall  worship  then, 
With  friends  beloved,  under  other  shade. 
Are  only  palms  in  Eden  ?     I  shall  miss 
The  tree  whereby  Eve  fell,  —  if  that  thou  wert,  — 
Not  seeing  it  beside  the  River  of  Life. 
Thou  art  too  beautiful  to  be  dropped  out 
Of  human  vision,  even  beatified. 


A    WHITE    SUNDAY.  207 

There  is  no  glory  of  the  trees  like  thine, 
Though  there  be  many  set  in  Paradise  ; 
There  must  thou  blossom  also. 

Dreams  are  lost 
In  guessing  at  the  glory  of  thy  boughs 
In  that  immortal  spring-time. 

Ah  !  dear  friends, 
Sweet  memories  of  the  earth,  and  sad  no  more, 
Will  float  around  us  in  the  air  of  heaven, 
A  fragrance  and  a  melody,  when  we, 
Young,  glad,  and  all  as  if  at  home  again, 
Sit  under  our  transplanted  apple-trees. 


208  DROUGHT. 


SONNETS. 

I. 

DROUGHT. 

r  I  ^HERE  is  a  trouble  may  befall  the  soul, 
Beside  which  grief  will  seem  a  happiness. 

The  stream  whose  murmur  evermore  to  bless 
Your  desert  with  bewildering  music  stole  — 
That  o'er  your  waste  of  being  did  unroll 

\  weft  of  green,  for  beauty  and  for  shade, 

A.nd  in  the  wilderness  a  garden  made  — 
Withdraws,  drop  after  drop,  its  priceless  dole  ; 

And  the  sweet  grasses  that  the  wind  sang  through, 
And  all  the  star-eyed  blossoms,  droop  and  die, 
Till  your  bare  life  lies  open  to  the  sky, — 

The  wide,  calm  weariness  of  rainless  blue,  — 
Without  a  voice  to  babble  its  distress ; 
A  barren,  uncomplaining  silentness. 


SPRINGS    IN    THE    DESERT.  209 

II. 

SPRINGS    IN  THE  DESERT. 

A   ND  there  is  joy  no  music  can  express, 
*■  When  in  the  empty  channels  of  the  heart 
New  springs  of  love  from  unknown  sources  start ; 

When  all  the  desert-land  of  selfishness 

That,  parched  and  shrivelling  in  its  own  distress, 
Sent  not  a  drop  to  cheer  the  neighboring  waste, 
Breaks  into  song,  and  with  o'erflowing  haste 

Pours  rill  to  rill,  a  suffering  soil  to  bless. 
O  silent,  burning  hearts !  of  lonely  things 

Your  lot  is  far  the  mournfullest,  the  worst. 

But  when  your  sands  with  cooling  waters  burst, 
Each  thought  in  welcome  of  that  wonder  sings. 

Spring  up,  O  well !  from  God  the  fountain  flows 

That  makes  the  desert  blossom  as  the  rose. 


210  THE    SECRET. 


THE    SECRET. 

\I  THAT  selfishness  asked  for 

Was  vain : 
What  came  for  that  asking 

Brought  pain. 

Heaven's  manna  in  keeping 

Was  spoiled : 
All  beauty  self-seeking 

Hath  soiled. 

Complacency  blazoned 

Dull  dross. 
No  gain  came  of  hoarding, 

But  loss. 

Gain  !  none  save  the  giver 

Receives. 
Yet  who  that  old  gospel 

Believes  ? 


THE    SECRET.  211 

Nor  pauper  nor  beggar 

Then  be  ; 
Nor  niggard  of  bounty 

Most  free. 

But  one  way  is  Godlike, — 

To  give. 
Then  pour  out  thy  heart's  blood, 

And  live ! 


212         "HIMSELF  HE  CANNOT  SAVE. 


"HIMSELF   HE   CANNOT   SAVE." 

S~\   SCOFFER !   He  who  from  the  cross 
^~^^    Looked  down  thy  dark  abysm  of  loss, 
And  knew  His  pain  alone  could  win 
Such  souls  as  thine  from  gulfs  of  sin, — 
His  death-groan  mournful  echo  gave : 
"  Myself  I  cannot  save." 

Words  breathed  in  scorn,  yet  understood 
By  Him  to  bear  a  sense  of  good : 
The  secret  of  the  glorious  strife 
Between  the  powers  of  death  and  life, 
Love's  deepest  truth,  —  self-sacrifice, — . 
Hid  in  that  mockery  lies. 

And  he  must  understand  it  so 
Who  would  relieve  a  brothers  woe : 
He  cannot  shun  his  own  distress ; 
He  hastes,  with  Christ-like  earnestness, 
Although  the  way  be  through  his  grave : 
Himself  he  cannot  save. 


"  HIMSELF    HE    CANNOT    SAVE."  2 1 3 

Some  happy  souls  may  pass  along 
The  heavenward  road  with  smile  and  song, 
Through  guileless  infancy  and  youth 
Linked  in  with  followers  of  the  truth ; 
And  their  unconsciousness  of  ill 

But  makes  them  lovelier  still. 

Their  peaceful  path  is  not  for  all : 
Each  must  obey  his  separate  call ; 
And  he  is  of  himself  abhorred 
Who  flies  the  summons  of  the  Lord : 
Sailing  from  danger  unto  ease, 

He  sinks  in  unknown  seas. 

None  longs  so  for  yon  vales  of  peace 
As  he  whom  war  gives  no  release. 
But  exiles'  chains  his  brethren  wear  ; 
He  knows  no  rest  they  may  not  share  ; 
For  them  all  hardships  he  must  brave  : 
Himself  he  cannot  save. 

Aye,  through  all  pain  and  loneliness, 
Where  men  are  perilled,  he  must  press 
To  rescue,  crying,  "Woe  is  me, 


214  "HIMSELF    HE    CANNOT    SAVE." 

Resisting  not  the  wrong  I  see ! 
If  none  uphold  me,  I  must  go 
Singly  against  the  foe ! " 

And  not  the  warrior-heart  alone 
The  scoffer's  word  for  truth  has  known. 
The  mourner,  weeping  out  the  night 
For  aliens  from  the  one.  true  Light; 
The  watcher  by  the  bed  of  pain, 

Who  knows  her  watch  in  vain  ; 

He  who  has  felt  his  heaviest  cross 
Far  lighter  than  another's  loss ; 
He  who  can  ask  and  bear  the  blow 
That  shelters  any  soul  from  woe, 
Sees  why  that  Death  on  Calvary 
Life's  beacon-light  must  be. 

Ring,  mournful  echo,  through  the  world ! 
Float,  banner  of  the  Cross,  unfurled 
To  show  the  servant  who  would  prove 
His  Master's  joy  of  suffering  love, 
That,  while  thy  folds  above  him  wave, 
Himself  he  cannot  save ! 


"AS    STRANGERS    AND    PILGRIMS."  21 5 


"AS   STRANGERS   AND   PILGRIMS." 

AS  strangers,  —  glad  for  this  good  inn, 
Where  nobler  wayfarers  have  been ; 
Yet  asking  but  a  little  rest: 
Earth  may  not  keep  her  spirit-guest. 

As  those  whom  no  entangling  bond 
Must  draw  from  life  and  love  beyond : 
Strangers  to  all  that  lures  astray 
From  one  plain  path,  the  homeward  way. 

How  must  the  pilgrim's  load  be  borne  ? 
With  staggering  limbs,  and  look  forlorn  ? 
His  Guide  chose  all  that  load  within  ■ 
There's  need  of  everything,  but  sin. 

So,  trusting  Him  whose  love  he  knows, 
Singing  along  the  road  he  goes ; 
And  nightly  of  his  burden  makes 
A  pillow  till  the  morning  breaks.  * 


2l6  "AS    STRANGERS    AND    PILGRIMS." 

How  thinks  the  pilgrim  of  his  way  ? 
As  wanderers  homesick  and  astray  ?  — 
The  starlight  and  the  dew  he  sees ; 
He  feels  the  blessing  of  the  breeze ; 

The  valley-shades,  how  cool  and  still ! 
What  splendor  from  the  beetling  hill ! 
He  longs  to  go,  —  he  loves  to  stay  ;  — 
For  God  is  both  his  Home  and  Way. 

Strangers  to  sin  !  beloved  of  God  ! 
Ye  track  with  heaven-light  earth's  mean  sod ; 
For,  pilgrims  dear,  He  walks  with  you, 
A  Guide,  —  but  once  a  Pilgrim  too. 


MONICA   AND    AUGUSTINE.  217 


MONICA   AND   AUGUSTINE.5 

T  N  the  martyr  Cyprian's  chapel   there  was  moan- 
■*-         ing  through  the  night ; 
Monica's   low   prayer  stole   upward   till   it   met   the 

early  light. 
Till  the  dawn  came,  walking  softly  o'er  the  troubled 

sea  without, 
Monica  for  her  Augustine  wept  the  dreary  watches  out. 

"  Lord  of  all  the  holy  martyrs  !  Giver  of  the  crown 
of  flame, 

Set  on  hoary-headed  Cyprian,  who  to  Thee  child- 
hearted  came  ; 

Hear  me  for  my  child  of  promise !  Thou  his  erring 
way  canst  see ; 

Long  from  Thee  a  restless  wanderer,  must  he  go 
away  from  me  ? 

"'Tis  for  Thee,  O   God,  a   motner   this   her   won- 
drous child  would  keep ; 
10 


2l8  MONICA   AND    AUGUSTINE. 

Through   the   ripening   of  his  manhood  Thou   hast 

seen  me  watch  and  weep. 
Tangled  in  the  mesh  of  Mani,  groping  through  the 

maze  of  sense, 
Other,  deadlier   snares   await   him,   if  from  me   he 

wander  hence. 

"  Thine  he  shall   be,  Lord ;  Thy  promise  brightens 

up  my  night  of  fears : 
Faith  beholds  him  at  Thy  altar,  yet   baptized  with 

only  tears  ; 
For  the  angel  of  my  vision,  came  he  not  from  Thy 

right  hand, 
Whispering    unto    me,    his    mother,    'Where    thou 

standest,  he  shall  stand '  ? 

"  Saviour,  Lord,  whose  name  is  Faithful,  I  am  Thine, 

I  rest  on  Thee  ; 
And   beside  me   in    Thy  kingdom  I   this   wanderer 

shall  see. 
Check  the  tide !  hold  still  the  breezes !  for  his  soul's 

beloved  sake, 
Do  not  let  him  leave  me  !     Keep  him  —  keep  him  — 

lest  my  heart  should  break  ! " 


MONICA    AND    AUGUST] NE.  219 


Man  must  ask,  and  God  will  answer,  yet  we  may 
not  understand, 

Knowing  but  our  own  poor  language  all  the  writ- 
ing of  His  hand. 

In  our  meagre  speech  we  ask  him,  and  He  answers 
in  His  own  ; 

Vast  beyond  our  thought  the  blessing  that  we  blindly 
judge  is  none. 

When  the  sun  rose  from  the  water,  Monica  was  on 

the  shore ; 
Out    of    sight    had    dropped    the    vessel    that    afar 

Augustine  bore. 
Home  she  turned,  her  sad  heart  singing  underneath 

its  load  of  care, 
"  Still   I   know  Thy  name  is   faithful,  O  Thou  God 

that  hearest  prayer  !  " 


By   the   garden-beds   of   Ostia  now   together    stand 

the  twain, 
Monica  and   her   Augustine,   gazing   far   across   the 

main, 


220  MONICA   AND    AUGUSTINE. 

Toward  the   home-land  of  Numidia,  hiding   in   the 

distance  dim, 
Where  God   parted   them   in  sorrow,  both  to  bring 

the  nearer  Him. 


And  the  mother's  prayer  is  answered,  for  their  souls 

are  side  by  side, 
Where   His  peace  flows  in  upon  them  with  a  full 

eternal  tide. 
And  Augustine's  thought  is  blending  with  the  mur 

mur  of  the  sea  ; 
"  Bless  Thee,  Lord,  that  we  are  restless,  till  we  find 

our  rest  in  Thee ! " 


And  their  talk,  the  son  and  mother,  leaning  out 
above  the  flowers, 

Is  like  lapse  of  angel-music,  linking  heaven's  enrap- 
tured hours. 

Hushed  is  all  the  song  of  Nature ;  hushed  is  care, 
and  passion's  din, 

In  that  hush  they  hear  a  welcome  from  the  High- 
est :  —  "  Enter  in  !  " 


MONICA   AND    AUGUSTINE.  221 

"  What  new  mercy  has  befallen  ?  every  earthly  wish 

is  gone," 
Monica  half  speaks,  half  muses  ;  "  why  should  earthly 

life  move  on  ? 
Ah,  my  son,  what  peace  and  gladness  surging  from 

this  silence  roll ! 
*T  is  the   Eternal   Deep  that   answers   to   the   deep 

within  my  soul ! 

"  Not  a  sigh  of  homesick  longing  moves  the  still- 
ness of  my  heart ; 

In  the  light  of  this  great  glory,  unto  God  would  I 
depart. 

Though  more  dear  thou  art  than  ever,  standing  at 
heaven's  gate  with  me, 

For  the  sweetness  of  His  presence  I  could  say  fare- 
well to  thee." 


There  's  a  silent  room  in  Ostia ;  tearless  mourners 

by  a  bed  : 
Since  the  angels  roused  that  sleeper,  who  shall  weep, 

or  call  her  dead  ? 


222  MONICA   AND   AUGUSTINE. 

Not  beside  the  dust  beloved  shall  her  exiled  ashes  lie  ; 
She  awaits  the   Resurrection  underneath  a   Roman 
sky. 

Now  Augustine  in  his  bosom  keeps  the  image  of  a 

saint, 
Whose  warm  tears  of  consecration  drop  on  thoughts 

of  sinful  taint. 
In  the   home  that   knew  him   erring,  a   bewildered 

Manichee, 
Minister  at  Truth's  high  altar,  him  that  mother-saint 

shall  see. 

In  the  dreams  of  midnight,  haunted   by  the  ghosts 

of  buried  sins  ; 
In  the  days  of  calm,  the  spirit,  struggling  through 

temptation,  wins  ; 
Monica   looks    down    upon    him,   joy   to    bless,  and 

gloom  beguile ; 
And   the  world   can  see  Augustine  clearer  for  that 

saintly  smile. 

Still  the  billows  from  Numidia  seek  the  lovely  Ro- 
man shore, 


MONICA   AND   AUGUSTINE.  223 

Though  Augustine  to  his  mother  sailed  long  since 
the  death-wave  o'er, 

Still  his  word  sweeps  down  the  ages  like  the  surg- 
ing of  the  sea: 

"  Bless  Thee,  Lord,  that  we  are  restless,  till  we  find 
our  rest  in  Thee!" 


DEVOTIONAL 


A  THANKSGIVING. 

TT  OR  the  wealth  of  pathless  forests, 

Whereon  no  axe  may  fall ; 
For  the  winds  that  haunt  the  branches  ; 

The  young  bird's  timid  call  ; 
For  the  red  leaves  dropped  like  rubies 

Upon  the  dark  green  sod  ; 
For  the  waving  of  the  forests, 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  God! 

For  the  sound  of  waters  gushing 

In  bubbling  beads  of  light ; 
For  the  fleets  of  snow-white  lilies 

Firm-anchored  out  of  sight ; 
For  the  reeds  among  the  eddies  ; 

The  crystal  on  the  clod  ; 
For  the  flowing  of  the  rivers, 

I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God ! 


228  A   THANKSGIVING. 

For  the  rosebud's  break  of  beauty 

Along  the  toiler's  way  ; 
For  the  violet's  eye  that  opens 

To  bless  the  new-born  day ; 
For  the  bare  twigs  that  in  summer 

Bloom  like  the  prophet's  rod  ; 
For  the  blossoming  of  flowers, 
I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God  ! 

For  the  lifting  up  of  mountains, 

In  brightness  and  in  dread ; 
For  the  peaks  where  snow  and  sunshine 

Alone  have  dared  to  tread ; 
For  the  dark  of  silent  gorges, 

Whence  mighty  cedars  nod ; 
For  the  majesty  of  mountains, 

I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God  ! 

For  the  splendor  of  the  sunsets, 

Vast  mirrored  on  the  sea  ; 
For  the  gold-fringed  clouds,  that  curtain 

Heaven's  inner  mystery ; 
For  the  molten  bars  of  twilight, 

Where  thought  leans,  glad,  yet  awed  ; 


A    THANKSGIVING.  229 

For  the  glory  of  the  sunsets, 
I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God ! 

For  the  earth,  and  all  its  beauty ; 

The  sky  and  all  its  light ; 
For  the  dim  and  soothing  shadows, 

That  rest  the  dazzled  sight ; 
For  unfading  fields  and  prairies, 

Where  sense  in  vain  has  trod  ; 
For  the  world's  exhaustless  beauty, 

I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God  ! 

For  an  eye  of  inward  seeing ; 

A  soul  to  know  and  love ; 
For  these  common  aspirations, 

That  our  high  heirship  prove  ; 
For  the  hearts  that  bless  each  other 

Beneath  Thy  smile,  Thy  rod  ; 
For  the  amaranth  saved  from  Eden, 

I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God ! 

For  the  hidden  scroll,  o'erwritten 
With  one  dear  Name  adored  ; 


230  A    THANKSGIVING. 

For  the  Heavenly  in  the  human  ; 

The  Spirit  in  the  Word  ; 
For  the  tokens  of  Thy  presence 

Within,  above,  abroad  ; 
For  Thine  own  great  gift  of  Being, 

I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God ! 


OUR   PRAYERS.  23  I 


OUR  PRAYERS. 

A   RT  Thou  not  weary  of  our  selfish  prayers  ? 
"*••**  Forever  crying,  "  Help  me,  save  me,  Lord ! " 
We  stay  fenced  in  by  petty  fears  and  cares, 

Nor  hear  the  song  outside,  nor  join  its  vast  accord. 

And  yet  the  truest  praying  is  a  psalm : 
The  lips  that  open  in  pure  air  to  sing 

Make  entrance  to  the  heart  for  health  and  balm  ; 
And  so  life's  urn  is  filled  at  heaven's  all-brimming 
spring. 

Is  not  the  need  of  other  souls  our  need  ? 

After  desire  the  helpful  act  must  go, 
As  the  strong  wind  bears  on  the  winged  seed 

To  some  bare  spot  of  earth,  and  leaves   it   there 
to  grow. 

Still  are  we  saying,  "  Teach  us  how  to  pray  "  ? 
O  teach  us  how  to  love !  and  then  our  prayer 


232  OUR    PRAYERS. 

Through  other  lives  will  find  its  upward  way, 
As  plants  together  seek  and  find  sweet  life  and  air. 

Thy  large  bestowing  makes  us  ask  for  more. 

Prayer  widens  with  the  world  wherethrough  love 
flows. 
Needy,  though  blest,  we  throng  before  Thy  door  : 
Let  in  Thy  sunshine,  Lord,  on  all  that  lives  and 
grows  ! 


AT   THE   BEAUTIFUL    GATE.  233 


AT  THE   BEAUTIFUL   GATE. 

T     ORD,  open  the  door,  for  I  falter, 
— '  I  faint  in  this  stifled  air; 
In  dust  and  straitness  I  lose  my  breath  ; 
This  life  of  self  is  a  living  death  : 
Let  me  into  Thy  pastures  broad  and  fair, 
To  the  sun  and  the  wind  from  Thy  mountains  free ; 
Lord,  open  the  door  to  me  ! 

There  is  holier  life,  and  truer, 

Than  ever  my  heart  has  found  : 
There  is  nobler  work  than  is  wrought  within 
These  walls  so  charred  by  the  fires  of  sin, 
Where  I  toil  like  a  captive  blind  and  bound : 
An  open  door  to  a  freer  task 

In  Thy  nearer  smile,  I  ask. 

Yet  the  world  is  Thy  field,  Thy  garden  ; 
On  earth  art  Thou  still  at  home. 


234  AT    THE    BEAUTIFUL    GATE. 

When  Thou  bendest  hither  Thy  hallowing  eye, 
My  narrow  work-room  seems  vast  and  high, 
Its  dingy  ceiling  a  rainbow  dome :  — 
Stand  ever  thus  at  my  wide-swung  door, 
And  toil  will  be  toil  no  more. 

Through  the  rosy  portals  of  morning, 

Now  the  tides  of  sunshine  flow. 
O'er  the  blossoming  earth  and  the  glistening  sea, 
The  praise  Thou  inspirest  rolls  back  to  Thee : 
Its  tones  through  the  infinite  arches  go ; 
Yet,  crippled  and  dumb,  behold  me  wait, 

Dear  Lord,  at  the  Beautiful  Gate. 

I  wait  for  Thy  hand  of  healing, — 

For  vigor  and  hope  in  Thee. 
Open  wide  the  door,  —  let  me  feel  the  sun,  — 
Let  me  touch  Thy  robe  :  —  I  shall  rise  and  run 
Through  Thy  happy  universe,  safe  and  free, 
Where  in  and  out  Thy  beloved  go, 

Nor  want  nor  wandering  know. 

Thyself  art  the  Door,  Most  Holy  ! 
By  Thee  let  me  enter  in  ! 


AT    THE    BEAUTIFUL    GATE.  235 

I  press  toward  Thee  with  my  failing  strength  : 
Unfold  Thy  love  in  its  breadth  and  length ! 
True  life  from  thine  let  my  spirit  win  ! 
To  the  Saints'  fair  City,  the  Father's  Throne, 
Thou,  Lord,  art  the  way  alone. 

From  the  deeps  of  unseen  glory 

Now  I  feel  the  flooding  light 
O  rare  sweet  winds  from  Thy  hills  that  blow ! 
O  River  so  calm  in  its  crystal  flow ! 
O  Love  unfathomed,  —  the  depth,  the  height ! 
What  joy  wilt  Thou  not  unto  me  impart, 

When  Thou  shalt  enlarge  my  heart ! 

To  be  made  with  Thee  one  spirit, 

Is  the  boon  that  I  lingering  ask. 
To  have  no  bar  'twixt  my  soul  and  Thine  ; 
My  thoughts  to  echo  Thy  will  divine  ; 
Myself  Thy  servant,  for  any  task. 
Life  !  life  !  I  may  enter,  through  Thee,  the  Door,  — 

Saved,  sheltered  forevermore  ! 


236  MY   ANGEL-DRESS. 


MY  ANGEL-DRESS, 


TJ  EAVENLY  Father,  I  would  wear 

Angel-garments,  white  and  fair : 
Angel-vesture  undefiled 
Wilt  Thou  give  unto  thy  child  ? 


Not  a  robe  of  many  hues, 
Such  as  earthly  fathers  choose  ;  — 
Discord  weaves  the  gaudy  vest : 
Not  in  such  let  me  be  drest. 

Take  the  raiment  soiled  away 
That  I  wear  with  shame  to-day  : 
Give  my  angel-robe  to  me, 
White  with  heavenly  purity. 

Take  away  my  cloak  of  pride, 
And  the  worthless  rags  't  would  hide 
Clothe  me  in  my  angel-dress, 
Beautiful  with  holiness. 


MY   ANGEL-DRESS.  237 

Perfume  every  fold  with  love, 
Hinting  heaven  where'er  I  move  ; 
As  an  Indian  vessel's  sails 
Whisper  of  her'  costly  bales. 

Let  me  wear  my  white  robes  here, 
Even  on  earth,  my  Father  dear, 
Holding  fast  Thy  hand,  and  so 
Through  the  world  unspotted  go. 

Let  me  now  my  white  robes  wear: 
Then  I  need  no  more  prepare, 
All  apparelled  for  my  home 
Whensoe'er  Thou  callest,  "  Come  !  " 

Thus  apparelled,  I  shall  be 
As  a  signal  set  for  Thee, 
That  the  wretched  and  the  weak 
May  the  same  fair  garments  seek. 

"  Buy  of  Me,"  I  hear  Thee  say : 
I  have  naught  wherewith  to  pay, 
But  I  give  myself  to  Thee  ; 
Clothed,  adopted  I  shall  be. 


2^8  "FOLLOW   THOU    ME.n 


"FOLLOW  THOU   ME." 

f\  WHERE  shall  we  follow   Thee,  Saviour  be- 

^     loved  ? 

To  Kedron,  where  oft  thou  hast  thoughtfully  roved  > 

—  Each  rill  of  enjoyment  that  winds  through  our  care 
Is  Kedron,  if  Thou  wilt  but  walk  with  us  there. 

O  where  shall  we  follow  Thee,  Jesus,  our  Friend  ? 
To  Bethany,  whither  thy  feet  loved  to  tend  ? 

—  Our  fireside  is  Bethany,  peaceful  and  blest ; 
And  ne'er  will  we  wander,  with  Thee  for  a  guest. 

O  where  shall  we  follow  Thee,  Master  adored? 
To  the  Beautiful  City  that  knew  not  her  Lord  ? 

—  Alas  for  our  streets,  full  of  evil  and  pain  ! 
Toil  with  us  for  cities  wept  over  in  vain ! 

O  where  shall  we  follow  Thee,  Leader  Divine  ? 
To  Tabor,  where   thou  in  white  glory  didst  shine  ? 

—  Thy  face  in  the  sin-sick  and  weary  we  see, 
When  Love  is  the  Tabor  we  stand  on  with  Thee. 


"FOLLOW    THOU    ME."  239 

O  where  shall  we  follow  Thee,  tenderest  Guide  ? 
To  the  sweet,  mournful  garden  down  Olivet's  side  ? 

—  Ah,  here  is  Gethsemane, — here,  where  we  mourn: 
Here    strengthen   us,    Thou    who    our    sorrow   hast 

borne  ! 

O  where  shall  we  follow  Thee,  dear  Lamb  of  God  ? 
Up  Golgotha's  death-steep,  for  us  meekly  trod  ? 

—  The  thorns  pierce  our  temples;   the  cross   bears 

us  down  ; 
Like  Thine,  make  our  Calvary  garland  our  crown  ! 

O  where  shall  we  follow  Thee,  conquering  Lord  ? 
To  Paradise,  unto  us  outcasts  restored  ? 
'T  is  Paradise,  Lord,  in  thy  presence  to  be  ; 
And,  living  or  dying,  we  're  ever  with  Thee  ! 


24O  THY    WILL   BE   DONE. 


THY  WILL   BE   DONE. 

/~~\NLY  silently  resigned 

^^    To  the  counsels  of  Thy  mind  ; 
Willing,  yet  rejoicing  not, 
That  Thy  purpose  shall  be  wrought ; 

Is  this  truly  to  submit  ? 
Folding  placid  hands,  to  sit, 
While  innumerable  feet 
Thy  triumphant  coming  meet  ? 

Shall  we  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done  ! " 
And  on  our  own  errands-  run  ? 
Vain  and  evil  the  design 
We  pursue,  apart  from  Thine. 

Teach  us  how  to  live  this  prayer ; 
Reverently  Thy  plans  to  share. 
More  than  echoes  of  Thy  voice,  — 
Make  us  partners  in  Thy  choice. 


THY   WILL    BE   DONE. 

Lift  us  up  to  catch  from  Thee 
World-encircling  sympathy. 
Ardor,  strength,  and  courage  give; 
As  Thou  livest,  let  us  live  ! 

Let  our  deeds  be  syllables 

Of  the  prayer  our  spirit  swells. 

In  us  Thy  desire  fulfil; 

By  us  work  Thy  gracious  will ! 


241 


11 


242  THE    STILL    HOUR. 


THE   STILL   HOUR. 

r  I  ^HE  quiet  of  a  shadow-haunted  pool 

Where  light  breaks   through   in   glorious  ten- 
derness, 
Where  the  tranced  pilgrim  in  the  shelter  cool 
Forgets  the  way's  distress  ; 

Such  is  this  hour,  this  silent  hour  with  Thee  ! 

The  trouble  of  the  restless  heart  is  still, 
And  every  swaying  wish  breathes  reverently 
The  whisper  of  Thy  will. 

Father,  our  thoughts  are  rushing  wildly  on, 

Tumultuous,  clouded  with  their  own  vain  strife  ; 
Darkened  by  cares  from  our  own  planting  grown  ;  — 
We  call  the  tumult  life. 

And  something  of  Thy  presence  still  is  given  : 
The  keen  light  flashing  from  the  seething  foam, 


THE    STILL    HOUR.  243 

Through   tangled    boughs    the    sudden    glimpse   of 
heaven, 
From  Thee,  Thee  only,  come. 

And  beautiful  it  is  to  catch  Thy  smile 

Amid  the  rush,  the  hurrying  flow  of  mind  ; 
To  feel  Thy  glance  upon  us  all  the  while, 
Most  holy  and  most  kind  ! 

More  blest  this  hour  of  heavenly  quietness, 
When,  as  a  lake  that  opens  to  the  sky, 
The  soul  serene  in  its  great  blessedness 
Looks  up  to  meet  Thine  eye  ! 

Fountain  of  Life,  in  Thee  alone  is  Light ! 

Shine  through  our  being,  cleansing  us  of  sin, 
Till  we  grow  lucid  with  Thy  presence  bright, 
The  peace  of  God  within. 

Yet  not  alone  as  Light  pervading  come  ;  — 

O  Thou  Divine  One,  meet  us  as  a  Friend  ! 
Only  with  Thee  is  every  heart  at  home  : 
Stay  with  us  to  the  end  ! 


244  THE   STILL    HOUR. 

By  the  stream's  windings  let  us  with  Thee  talk 

Of  this  strange  earth-life  Thou  so  well  hast  known, 
In  Thy  fresh  footprints  let  us  heavenward  walk,  — 
No  more  to  grope  alone  ! 

If  in  our  thoughts,  by  Thee  made  calm  and  clear, 

The  brightening  image  of  Thy  face  we  see, 
What  hour  of  all  our  lives  can  be  so  dear 
As  this  still  hour  with  Thee  ! 


THE    COMING    LIFE. 


HEAVEN'S   NEED. 

"VT'E  who,  passing,  bore  away 

■*■      Best  of  sunshine  from  our  day, — 
That  rare  glory  which  revives 
On  the  sky  of  clouded  lives, 
When,  through  mists  at  evening  rent, 
Rays  from  inmost  heaven  are  ,sent,  — 
What  of  earth  to  you  remains, 
Mid  imperishable  gains  ? 

Mother-love,  unchilled  by  change, 
Absence  wide,  and  coldness  strange, — 
Mother-love,  that  here  must  yearn 
Vainly  for  its  full  return 
From  the  shallow  heart  of  youth,  — 
Art  requited  now,  in  truth  ? 
Or  does  thy  dumb  longing  go 
Through  heaven's  happy  overflow  ? 


248  HEAVEN'S    NEED. 

Sister-love,  so  calm,  so  wise ! 
Starlight,  risen  on  darkened  skies  ; 
Heart  that  made  its  rifled  nest 
Shelter  for  the  homeless  guest,  — 
Of  thy  tenderness  bereft, 
Little  warmth  in  life  is  left. 
Has  that  new  world's  flood  of  bliss 
Swept  apart  the  ties  of  this  ? 


None  may  name  a  drearier  thought ;  — 
Hearts  we  lean  on  need  us  not. 
If  they  ask  for  us  no  more, 
Gathering  in  heaven's  affluent  store, 
Life  is  lonelier  than  we  knew  ; 
Sharper  anguish  thrills  death  through. 
In  this  rubbish-heap  of  earth 
Hides  no  pearl  heaven's  saving  worth  ? 


God  is  good.     His  face  they  see, 
And  are  glad  eternally. 
Yet  they  hear  love's  wordless  prayer, 
Sigh  that  stirs  the  peaceful  air, 


HEAVEN'S   NEED.  249 


And  our  yearning  secret  tells 
To  the  bending  asphodels. 
Lacks  one  drop  their  cup  to  fill ; 
Still  they  want  us,  wait  us  still. 


11* 


250         THE  CHAMBER  CALLED  PEACE. 


THE   CHAMBER   CALLED    PEACE.8 

/^\N  a  hill-top,  divested  of  trouble,  I  rested, 
^^^   One  blue,  starry  night, 

In   a  fair   eastern   chamber,  where  vines  strove   to 
clamber 
And  play  in  the  light. 
There  star-beams,  uncertain,  crept  down  through 
a  curtain 
Of  thin,  airy  fleece  ; 
There,  veiling  her  brightness  in  silvery  whiteness, 
The  moonlight,  caressing,  stole  in  with  a  blessing, 
To  the  chamber  called  Peace. 

The  mountains  surrounding,  with  radiance  abounding, 

In  the  broad  blaze  of  day, 
Encircled  my  spirit,  to  strengthen  and  cheer  it, 
When  the  night-purple  lay 
Like  a  mantle  upon  them,  and  silence  had  won 
them, 
Bold  prophets,  to  cease 


THE  CHAMBER  CALLED  PEACE.        25  I 

From  their  unfinished  story  of  Infinite  Glory : 
But    its    echo,    low-breathing,    like    incense    came 
wreathing 
The  chamber  called  Peace. 

Though  dripping  November  had  quenched  the  last 
ember 
Of  autumn's  red  fire, 
A  presence  enchanted  the  forest  yet  haunted  ; 
It  could  not  expire : 
It  lit  the  leaves,  flying  from  winds  feebly  sighing 

For  summer's  decease  ; 
Touched  the  birches  white-fingered,  that  silently 

lingered, 
Where  pine-choirs  were  sending  an    anthem   un- 
ending 
Through  the  chamber  called  Peace. 

In  a  still  flood  of  amber,  Dawn  entered  the  chamber, 

The  sleeper  to  rouse. 
A  rose-cloud  passed  slowly,  —  a  messenger  holy, 

At  pause  for  the  vows 
Of  pilgrims  awaking  ;  —  then  lifting  and  breaking 

From  a  rich,  robing  fleece, 


252        THE  CHAMBER  CALLED  PEACE. 

Like  an  Eye  fondly  glowing,  a  Heart  overflowing, 
The    sun,    proud    and    tender,    lit    up    with    full 
splendor 
The  chamber  called  Peace. 

In   that  white,  wayside   dwelling,  one   pilgrim  was 
swelling 
Her  heavenward  lay. 
The    strength   of  the   mountains,  the  joy   of  their 
fountains, 
Had  gladdened  her  stay  : 
The  pine-trees'  deep  sighing,  the  wind's  low  re- 
plying, 
For  her  soon  would  cease  ; 
But  a  holier  singing  the  angels  were  bringing 
To  her  dawn-lighted  chamber,  all  whiteness  and 
amber, 
Her  chamber  called  Peace. 

O,  joy  was  it,  staying  where  angels  were  playing 

The  sweet  airs  of  heaven 
To  one  blest  immortal,  whose  rest  at  the  portal 

Half  open,  was  given. 
While  we,  scarcely  grieving,  awaited  her  leaving, 

Her  hour  of  release, 


THE  CHAMBER  CALLED  PEACE.         253 

Hills  and  heavens  around  us,  like  walls  seemed 

to  bound  us, 
Of  a  Home  all  unblighted,  a  Mansion  love-lighted, 
A  chamber  called  Peace. 

For,  on  earth  or  in  heaven,  to  true  hearts  is  given 

One  quiet  abode  ; 
One  mighty  Arm  guards  them,  one  blessing  rewards 
them,  — 
The  Presence  of  God  ! 
The  stars  in  declining  fail  not  of  their  shining, 

Through  daylight's  increase  : 
They  who  pass  on  before  us  leave  dawn  break- 
ing o'er  us, 
Lighting  up,  through  death's  grating,  our  cham- 
ber of  waiting, 
Our  chamber  called  Peace. 


254  A    YEAR    IN    HEAVEN. 


A  YEAR  IN   HEAVEN. 


/^~\NE  year  among  the  angels,  beloved,  thou  hast 

^^^     been ; 

One  year  has  heaven's  white  portal  shut  back  the 

sound  of  sin  : 
And  yet  no  voice,  no  whisper,  comes  floating  down 

from  thee, 
To  tell  us  what  glad  wonder  a  year  of  heaven  may 

be. 


Our  hearts  before  it  listen,  —  the   beautiful  closed 

gate: 
The   silence  yearns   around   us  ;   we  listen   and   we 

wait. 
It    is    thy    heavenly    birthday,   on    earth    thy    lilies 

bloom  ; 
In  thine  immortal  garland   canst  find  for  these  no 

room  ? 


A    YEAR   IN    HEAVEN.  255 

Thou  lovedst  all  things  lovely  when  walking  with 
us  here  ; 

Now,  from  the  heights  of  heaven,  seems  earth  no 
longer  dear  ? 

We  cannot  paint  thee  moving  in  white-robed  state 
afar, 

Nor  dream  our  flower  of  comfort  a  cool  and  dis- 
tant star. 

Heaven  is  but  life  made  richer :  therein  can  be  no 

loss  : 
To  meet  our  love   and   longing   thou   hast   no   gulf 

to  cross  ; 
No  adamant  between  us  uprears'  its  rocky  screen  ; 
A  veil  before  us  only  ;  —  thou  in  the  light  serene. 

That  veil  'twixt   earth   and   heaven  a  breath  might 

waft  aside ; 
We   breathe   one    air,  beloved,  we  follow  one  dear 

Guide  : 
Passed  in  to  open  vision,  out  of  our  mists  and  rain, 
Thou  seest  how  sorrow  blossoms  ;  how  peace  is  won 

from  pain. 


256  A   YEAR   IN   HEAVEN. 

And  half  we  feel  thee  leaning  from  thy  deep  calm 

of  bliss, 
To  say  of  earth,  "  Beloved,  how  beautiful  it  is  ! 
The  lilies  in  this  splendor,  —  the  green  leaves  in  this 

dew  ;  — 
O,  earth   is   also   heaven,  with  God's  light  clothed 

anew  !  " 


So,  when  the  sky  seems  bluer,  and  when  the  blos- 
soms wear 

Some  tender,  mystic  shading  we  never  knew  was 
there, 

We  '11  say  "  We  see  things  earthly  by  light  of  sainted 
eyes  ; 

She  bends  where  we  are  gazing,  to-day,  from  Para- 
dise." 


Because  we  know  thee  near  us,  and  nearer  still  to 

Him 
Who  fills  thy  cup  of  being  with  glory  to  the  brim, 
We  will    not   stain  with   grieving   our   fair,  though 

fainter  light, 
But  cling  to  thee  in  spirit  as  if  thou  wert  in  sight. 


A   YEAR   IN   HEAVEN.  257 

And   as   in  waves  of  beauty  the  swift  years  come 

and  go, 
Upon  celestial  currents  our  deeper  life  shall  flow, 
Hearing,  from  that  sweet  country  where  blighting 

never  came, 
Love  chime  the  hours  immortal,  in  earth  and  heaven 

the  same. 


258  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 


BY  THE    FIRESIDE. 


TI  THAT  is  it  fades  and  nickers  in  the  fire, 

Mutters  and  sighs,  and  yields  reluctant  breath, 
As  if  in  the  red  embers  some  desire, 

Some  word  prophetic,  burned,  defying  death  ? 


Lords  of  the  forest,  stalwart  oak  and  pine, 
Lie  down  for  us  in  flames  of  martyrdom  : 

A  human,  household  warmth,  their  death-fires  shine  ; 
Yet  fragrant  with  high  memories  they  come  ; 

Bringing  the  mountain-winds  that  in  their  boughs 
Sang  of  the  torrent,  and  the  plashy  edge 

Of  storm-swept  lakes  ;  and  echoes  that  arouse 
The  eagles  from  some  splintered  eyrie-ledge  ; 

And  breath  of  violets  sweet  about  their  roots  ; 

And  earthy  odors  of  the  moss  and  fern  ; 
And  hum  of  rivulets  ;    smell  of  ripening  fruits  ; 

And  green  leaves  that  to  gold  and  crimson  turn. 


BY    THE   FIRESIDE.  259 

What  clear  Septembers  fade  out  in  a  spark  ! 

What  rare  Octobers  drop  with  every  coal ! 
Within  these  costly  ashes,  dumb  and  dark, 

Are  hid  spring's  budding  hope,  and  summer's  soul. 

Pictures  far  lovelier  smoulder  in  the  fire, 
Visions  of  friends  who  walked  among  these  trees, 

Whose  presence,  like  the  free  air,  could  inspire 
A  winged  life  and  boundless  sympathies. 

Eyes  with  a  glow  like  that  in  the  brown  beech, 
When  sunset  through  its  autumn  beauty  shines  ; 

Or  the  blue  gentian's  look  of  silent  speech, 
To  heaven  appealing  as  earth's  light  declines  ; 

Voices  and  steps  forever  fled  away 

From  the  familiar  glens,  the  haunted  hills, — 
Most  pitiful  and  strange  it  is  to  stay 

Without  you  in  a  world  your  lost  love  fills. 

Do  you  forget  us,  —  under  Eden-trees, 

Or  in  full  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  God,  — 

Who  miss  you  from  the  shadow  and  the  breeze, 
.And  tints  and  perfumes  of  the  woodland  sod? 


200  BY   THE    FIRESIDE. 

Dear  for  your  sake  the  fireside  where  we  sit 

Watching  these  sad,  bright  pictures  come  and  go ; 

That  waning  years  are  with  your  memory  lit, 
Is  now  the  lonely  comfort  that  we  know. 

Is  it  all  memory  ?   Lo,  these  forest-boughs 

Burst  on  the  hearth  into  fresh  leaf  and  bloom  ; 

Waft  a  vague,  far-off  sweetness  through  the  house, 
And  give  close  walls  the  hillside's  breathing-room. 

A  second  life,  more  spiritual  than  the  first, 
They  find,  a  life  won  only  out  of  death.  — 

O  sainted  souls,  within  you  still  is  nursed 
For  us  a  flame  not  fed  by  mortal  breath. 

Unseen,  you  bring  to  this,  erewhile  your  home, 
Fresh  air  from  the  new  country  close  above  ; 

Through  no  oblivious  heaven  your  footsteps  roam  ; 
Alive  in  God,  you  bless  us  with  His  love. 


NEAR   SHORE.  26 1 


NEAR   SHORE. 

r  I  ^HE  seas  of  thought  are  deep  and  wide  ; 

Let  those  who  will,  O  friend  of  mine, 
Sail  forth  without  a  chart  or  guide, 

Or  plummet-line  ; 

A  blank  of  waters  all  around,  — 
A  blank  of  azure  overhead,  — 
An  infinite  of  nothing  found, 

Whence  faith  has  fled. 

The  Name  that  we  with  reverence  speak, 
Echoes  across  those  wastes  of  thought ; 
But  they  who  go  far  off  to  seek, 

They  hear  it  not. 

The  shores  give  back  its  sweetest  sound 

From  rivulet  cool,  and  shadowing  rock, 
And  voices  that  calm  hearths  surround 

With  friendly  talk. 


262  NEAR    SHORE. 

Earth  is  our  little  island  home, 

And  heaven  the  neighboring  continent, 
Whence  winds  to  every  inlet  come 

With  balmiest  scent. 

And  tenderest  whispers  thence  we  hear 

From  those  who  lately  sailed  across. 
They  love  us  still ;  since  heaven  is  near, 

Death  is  not  loss. 

From  mountain  slopes  of  breeze  and  balm, 

What  melodies  arrest  the  oar  ! 
What  memories  ripple  through  the  calm ! 

We  '11  keep  near  shore. 

By  sweet  home  instincts  wafted  on, 

By  all  the  hopes  that  life  has  nursed, 
We  hasten  where  the  loved  have  gone, 

Who  landed  first. 

If  God  be  God,  then  heaven  is  real : 

We  need  not  lose  ourselves  and  Him 
In  some  vast  sea  of  the  ideal, 

Dreamy  and  dim. 


NEAR    SHORE.  263 

He  cheats  not  any  soul.     He  gave 

Each  being  unity  like  His ; 
Love,  that  links  beings,  He  must  save; 

Of  Him  it  is. 

Dear  friend,  we  will  not  drift  too  far 

Mid  billows,  fogs,  and  blinding  foam, 
To  see  Christ's  beacon-light,  —  the  star 

That  guides  us  home. 

Moving  toward  heaven,  we  '11  meet  half-way 

Some  pilot  from  that  unseen  strand  ; 
Then,  anchoring  safe  in  perfect  day, 

Tread  the  firm  land. 

Then  onward  and  forever  on 

Toward  summits  piled  on  summits  bright. 
The  lost  are  found,  and  we  have  won 

The  Land  of  Light ! 

God  is  that  country's  glory :  He 
Alike  the  confidence  is  found 
Of  those  who  try  the  uncertain  sea 

Or  solid  ground. 


264  NEAR   SHORE. 

Yet  we,  for  love  of  those  who  bend 

From  yon  clear  heights,  passed  on  before 
To  wait  our  coming,  —  we,  dear  friend, 

Will  keep  near  shore. 


ACROSS    THE    RIVER.  265 


ACROSS  THE   RIVER. 

TT7HEN  for  me  the  silent  oar 

*  *    Parts  the  Silent  River, 
And  I  stand  upon  the  shore 

Of  the  strange  Forever, 
Shall  I  miss  the  loved  and  known  ? 
Shall  I  vainly  seek  mine  own  ? 

Mid  the  crowd  that  come  to  meet 

Spirits  sin-forgiven,  — 
Listening  to  their  echoing  feet 

Down  the  streets  of  heaven,  — 
Shall  I  know  a  footstep  near 
That  I  listen,  wait  for  here  ? 

Then  will  one  approach  the  brink 

With  a  hand  extended, 
One  whose  thoughts  I  loved  to  think 

Ere  the  veil  was  rended, 
Saying  "  Welcome  !  we  have  died, 
And  again  are  side  by  side." 


266  ACROSS    THE    RIVER. 

Saying,  "I  will  go  with  thee, 
That  thou  be  not  lonely, 

To  yon  hills  of  mystery: 
I  have  waited  only 

Until  now,  to  climb  with  thee 

Yonder  hills  of  mystery." 

Can  the  bonds  that  make  us  here 
Know  ourselves  immortal, 

Drop  away,  like  foliage  sear, 
At  life's  inner  portal  ? 

What  is  holiest  below 

Must  forever  live  and  grow. 

I  shall  love  the  angels  well, 
After  I  have  found  them 

In  the  mansions  where  they  dwell, 
With  the  glory  round  them. 

But  at  first,  without  surprise, 

Let  me  look  in  human  eyes. 

Step  by  step  our  feet  must  go 
Up  the  holy  mountain  ; 

Drop  by  drop,  within  us  flow, 
Life's  unfailing  fountain. 


ACROSS    THE    RIVER.  267 

Angels  sing  with  crowns  that  burn  ; 
We  shall  have  a  song  to  learn. 

He  who  on  our  earthly  path 

Bids  us  help  each  other  — 
Who  his  Well-beloved  hath 

Made  our  Elder  Brother  — 
Will  but  clasp  the  chain  of  love 
Closer,  when  we  meet  above. 

Therefore  dread  I  not  to  go 

O'er  the  Silent  River. 
Death,  thy  hastening  oar  I  know  ; 

Bear  me,  thou  Life-giver, 
Through  the  waters,  to  the  shore, 
Where  mine  own  have  gone  before ! 


268  MORE   LIFE. 


N 


MORE    LIFE. 

OT  weary  of  Thy  world, 
So  beautiful,  O  Father,  in  Thy  love, 
Thy  world,  that,  glory-lighted  from  above, 
Lies  in  thy  hand  impearled : 

Not  asking  rest  from  toil ;  — 
Sweet  toil,  that  draws  us  nearer  to  Thy  side  ; 
Ever  to  tend  Thy  planting  satisfied, 

Though  in  ungenial  soil : 

Nor  to  be  freed  from  care, 
That  lifts  us  out  of  self's  lone  hollowness  ; 
Since  unto  Thy  dear  feet  we  all  may  press, 

And  leave  our  burdens  there : 

But  O  for  tireless  strength  ! 
A  life  untainted  by  the  curse  of  sin, 
That  spreads  no  vile  contagion  from  within ;  — 

Found  without  spot,  at  length  ! 


MORE    LIFE.  269 

For  power,  and  stronger  will 
To  pour  out  love  from  the  heart's  inmost  springs  ; 
A  constant  freshness  for  all  needy  things  ; 

In  blessing,  blessed  still ! 

O  to  be  clothed  upon 
With  the  white  radiance  of  a  heavenly  form  ! 
To  feel  the  winged  Psyche  quit  the  worm, 

Life,  life  eternal  won  ! 

O  to  be  free,  heart-free 
From  all  that  checks  the  right  endeavor  here ! 
To  drop  the  weariness,  —  the  pain,  —  the  fear,  — 

To  know  death  cannot  be  ! 

O  but  to  breathe  in  air 
Where  there  can  be  no  tyrant  and  no  slave ; 
Where  every  thought  is  pure,  and  high,  and  brave, 

And  all  that  is  is  fair! 

More  life  !  the  life  of  heaven ! 
A  perfect  liberty  to  do  Thy  will : 
Receiving  all  from  Thee,  and  giving  still, 

Freely  as  Thou  hast  given  ! 


270  MORE    LIFE. 

More  life !  a  prophecy 
Is  in  that  thirsty  cry,  if  read  aright. 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep :  Life  Infinite, 

O  soul,  awaiteth  thee  ! 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


Note  i.     Page  82. 

"  Below,  on  each  side  of  the  door,  are  two  beautiful  groups. 
That  to  the  right  of  the  spectator  represents  Siegfried  and  Chriem- 
hild.  She  is  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  her  warlike  husband,  with  an 
air  of  the  most  inimitable  and  graceful  abandonment  in  her  whole 
figure  :  a  falcon  sits  upon  her  hand,  on  which  her  eyes  are  turned  with 
the  most  profound  expression  of  tenderness  and  melancholy ;  she  is 
thinking  upon  her  dream,  in  which  was  foreshadowed  the  early  and 
terrible  doom  of  her  husband."  —  Mrs.  Jameson.  —  Description  of  the 
new  palace  at  Munich. 

Note  2.     Page  85. 
From  Mrs.  Jameson's  ' '  Legends  of  the  Monastic  Orders. " 

Note  3.     Page  93. 

"King  Robert  the  Second  of  France  was  author  of  the  touching 
hymn,  in  which  all  his  gentle  nature  seems  to  speak  :  — '  Veni  Sancte 
Spiritus.'  King  Robert  had  certainly  more  of  the  monk  than  the  king 
about  him.  Necessity  drove  him  to  the  cares  and  the  state  of  royalty ; 
but  his  joys  were  in  church-music,  which  he  composed,  in  devotion, 
and  in  alms-giving."  —  Christian  Life  in  Song. 

12*  R 


274  NOTES. 

Note  4.    Page  192. 

Suggested  by  a  bas-relief  of  the  prophet  Jeremiah,  by  Margue- 
rite Foley,  an  American  lady  residing  in  Italy. 

Note  5.     Page  217. 

"But  why  I  went  hence,  and  went  thither,  Thou  knewest,  O  God, 
yet  shewedst  it  neither  to  me,  nor  to  my  mother,  who  grievously  be- 
wailed my  journey,  and  followed  me  as  far  as  the  sea.  But  I  deceived 
her ;  and  I  feigned  that  I  had  a  friend  whom  I  could  not  leave  till  he 
had  a  fair  wind  to  sail.  And  yet  refusing  to  return  without  me,  I 
scarcely  persuaded  her  to  stay  that  night  in  a  place  hard  by  our  ship, 
where  was  an  Oratory  in  memory  of  the  blessed  Cyprian.  And  what 
was  she  asking  with  so  many  tears  of  Thee,  but  that  thou  wouldst  not 
suffer  me  to  sail  ?  But  Thou,  in  the  depth  of  Thy  counsels,  and  hear- 
ing the  main  point  of  her  desire,  regardedst  not  what  she  then  asked, 
that  Thou  mightest  make  me  what  she  ever  asked.  The  wind  blew 
and  filled  our  sails,  and  withdrew  the  shore  from  sight ;  and  she  on  the 
morrow  was  there,  frantic  with  sorrow."  —  Confessions  of  St.  Augustine. 

"For  whence  was  that  dream  whereby  Thou  comfortedst  her?  — 
She  saw  herself  standing  on  a  certain  wooden  rule,  and  a  shining 
youth  coming  towards  her,  cheerful  and  smiling  upon  her,  herself 
grieving.  But  he,  having  inquired  the  cause  of  her  grief  and  daily 
tears,  told  her  to  look  and  observe  '  That  where  she  was,  there  was  I 
also.'  And  when  she  looked,  she  saw  me  standing  by  her  in  the  same 
rule.  When  I  would  fain  bend  the  vision  to  mean,  that  she  rather 
should  not  despair  of  being  one  day  what  I  was ;  she  replied  "  No  ; 
for  it  was  not  told  me,  '  Where  he,  there  thou  also ' ;  but,  '  Where 
thou,  there  he  also.'  "  —  Ibid. 

"  She  and  I  stood  alone,  leaning  in  a  certain  window  which  looked 
into  the  garden  of  the  house  where  we  now  lay,  at  Ostia.  We  were 
discoursing  then  together,  alone,  very  sweetly.  .  .  .  Such  things  was 


NOTES.  275 

I  speaking,  when  my  mother  said ;  '  Son,  for  mine  own  part  I  have 
no  further  any  delight  in  this  life.  What  I  do  here  any  longer,  and 
why  I  am  here,  I  know  not,  now  that  my  hopes  in  this  world  are  ac- 
complished. One  thing  there  was  for  which  I  desired  to  linger  a  little 
while  in  this  life,  that  I  might  see  thee  a  Catholic  Christian  before  I 
died.  My  God  hath  done  this  for  me  more  abundantly  :  what  do  I 
here  ? '  Scarce  five  days  after  she  fell  sick  of  a  fever.  On  the  ninth 
day  of  her  sickness  was  that  religious  and  holy  soul  freed  from  the 
body."—  Ibid. 

Note  6.     Page  250. 

"  The  Pilgrim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose  window 
opened  towards  the  sun-rising  :  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace." 
—  BunyarCs  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


THE     END 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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